


sleeping felt like lies

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prophetic Dreams, Romance, Romantic Overtures, The Royal Navy, Victorian Attitudes, as the only ones who see sense, eventually, francis is a depressed bisexual and james is a disaster gay: change my mind, sympathetic portrayals of female characters, the REAL au is that the victorians had running water, thomas blanky and james ross need to start a supprt group, what do you mean crozier and fitzjames aren't personifications of my anxiety and depression?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-09 06:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 41,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18632992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: Escaping the ice is more down to sheer dumb luck than any happenstance of Sight, Divine Intervention or the not-insignificant amount of skill their crews bring to the occasion, but they all get out alive (bar unfortunate souls Sir John and Cornelius Hickey, whose deaths are viewed by many as, contrarily, rather fortunate.) Now, in London, pressed by Commander Fitzjames to saving their navy half-pay by sharing rooms together, Crozier is struggling to return to normality.It would help, he admits begrudgingly, if he could tell the difference between dreams blessed/cursed by the Sight and just good old trauma-induced nightmares. And if he hadn’t started to develop feelings for the man who, even ridden with scurvy, still deserved the title ‘handsomest man in the royal navy’.Alternatively: the 'everybody lives' idea has it's own challenges, and I had the plot-idea  of 'what if francis confused sight and nightmares?' and then I started writing this and realised james fitzjames is an anxiety-ridden mess™. the real au of all of this is that the Victorians had running water.





	1. Chapter 1

“Cheer up, Francis- you may enjoy yourself!” All he received in response was a glowering mumble that sounded something akin to ‘the whole Arctic will melt first’, but James chose to ignore that. Let the man grumble, he’d be a damn sight happier if he could become a bona-fide hermit, but _he_ at least planned to enjoy tonight’s gala. The sight of glowing candles, shining walls and mirrors and bedecked women in dresses and silks was lifting his heart and James Fitzjames felt very close to how he had done before commanding _Erebus_. He noticed Francis was looking at him slyly from the corner of his eye and bit back a laugh- the ‘big hat’ had been the first victim of this evening’s ire and thus was missing from the ensemble, and somehow his glower did not look right without the headwear to top the whole spectacle off.

Since their escape from the Arctic had come quick enough to prevent any idea of mutiny or eating one’s crewmates or ship’s dog, and saved the Navy the expense of a rescue mission, the whole affair was deemed nothing short of miraculous and the blame laid squarely on the doorstep of Mr Goldner’s long-abandoned house. Which meant promotion for them both, a knighthood for Francis, a park statue for Sir John, and a good deal many more dinners, balls, galas, parties and evenings out. All of which Captain Fitzjames was determined to enjoy to the very last second, two toes missing from frostbite no hindrance at all.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought wryly, _living with a melancholic will become a popular mood-improver_. Not least did it inspire a determination to be cheerful but it also exasperated said melancholic bastard no end.

Francis was still looking at him. At long last, he turned his head away. “You’re enjoying yourself. Too much, I’d say.”

“I’d say you do not know how to enjoy anything at all, my friend. Look at all _this_!” he swept his hand, discretely emphasizing the grand hall where people sipped and talked and socialised in preparation for the evening to come. Anticipation was jumping in his bones and the room was warm and bright against the external winter. “How can you not enjoy it?”

“How could anyone bloody well enjoy it?” Then, quieter, lower, an aside that he nearly kept to himself and James would be thankful for a long time after that he didn’t: “It is a good look upon you.”

“What is?”

“Happiness. It is very good to see you happy.”

 

***

 

Evening after that exchange and the brief, tender, awkward silence that followed was a drawn out, tender, painful affair; dull only to those recently returned from certain death, who had nearer comparisons to make. _To think I once shone here._ The delight turned sour in a shatter of glass as people spoke aloud; offered opinions on people he didn’t know and matters he didn’t care for- trivial matters, which they spoke of so seriously and with all the earnestness in the world at times he was hard-pressed not to burst out laughing, or read them a page from Book of Leviathans Thirteen. _I cannot believe six months ago I longed for this._

Francis smiled truly for the first time upon realising James Clark Ross was also in attendance and the sight made James himself smile too, more like as not looking ridiculous to any watching party and for once not giving a damn about anyone else’s opinion. This, he would reflect much later, should have been his first clue.

 

***

 

The call of duty matched the calls of babbling young ladies for one of James’ now-infamous tales mere minutes after the appearance of James Clark Ross, a call that Francis- having endured aforementioned feats of derring-do so oft as to be able to repeat them verbatim- very gladly forsook in favour of the company of his old friend. _Two friends in one night, and both called James_.

Ross smirked over the space between the armchairs they had pulled close in a drafty, stinking, secluded little room unlikely to be approached, or at least not without fair warning. “I hear the one about China is very good.”

“Then you would be more than welcome to go and join them.”

“Alas, twice was enough for me.” They dissolved into laughter and Francis felt his smile widen so far it felt almost as if it was at risk of cracking his skull apart. God, but it felt good to be happy.

“You do not know the half of it, James dear. You have never had to listen to any of his adventures sober as a nun.”

His face shifted in the dim light- speckles of dust spinning through the air like snow. “Still?”

Francis straightened in his chair, unable to tell whether its arms or his were the ones creaking, “A year in January.” If he feared any sympathy or pride, Ross did not then give it. A smile appeared, one of the true, soft, gentle smiles few ever received and that was the only comment made on the matter.

“Well, would you look at you, Frank: sober, sweet-tempered and sociable. You are a long way from Bainbridge my friend. I couldn’t love you more for it.”

“Hmph. Speaking of love- where is Ann, this evening, or have you thrown the poor woman over for me?”

“Alas, she could not come tonight. A prior engagement with her mother kept her away- she found it more charitable.”

“It’d be charitable of her to rescue from this excessive horror.” An image of Britannia came to mind. Then James as Britannia. Unbidden and unwilling, Francis felt a smile spill over his face and fought to remain stoic, melancholic and grumpy. Ross was smirking again, damn him.

“Surely the evening is not all bad, hmm? You and the captain seemed to be getting along very well.”

Damn him. Both of them. “You must be mistaking me for another man the captain spoke to. I, as you well know, do not get along quite well with anybody.” There never even entered into the question who the captain was- oh, bugger it all.

“Indeed. I am still not convinced the whole expedition and losing my ship wasn’t simply the revenge you promised me for Parry’s expedition.”

The conversation he was referring to Francis remembered clearly: taking place in a similar setting of a secluded room, though in Ross’ house in Blackheath, and then jested many times over in locations thereafter all over the globe. Painful, emotional, much-needed and at times the two of them grating along and others blunt or near tears but culminating in promises of revenge and never to leave again. Clearest in his mind was the taste of whiskey in his mouth. He missed an old friend something dreadful.

“Remain unconvinced, then, if it so pleases you. Some would argue that it is a very small atonement to make if one is to bear in mind, firstly, we thought you lost four years and, secondly, it was no longer your ship.”

A wave of his hand and a peal of laughter too fragile. “A technicality, at best. Just remember that the single most convincing piece of evidence is that I know you, and I know you to be a damned petty bastard given proper cause and commitment.” So totally and utterly Ross was the declaration, it meant more than any knighthood or admiral’s speech and, laughing, Francis reached across and coupled their hands together mid-air, swaying slightly like Terror’s flag on a calm day. “Francis- God, Oh Francis, I have missed you.”

Tears sprang to his eyes and the laugh was stuck in the back of his throat, “And I you James. Believe me when I say I have missed you with such ferocity words fail its extent.”

The hand in his tightened. “I do.” Francis remembered his wedding to Ann and the jealousy and the smiles and the whiskey. He lost track of the conversation for a while after that, spin-drifting and sinking lower and lower into the cold arctic sea, only light the hot white expanse of sun shining through the pack ice on the surface. Though unoriginal it was bearable- the conversation and friendship coming easy and no thinking to be done, words passing through his head as quickly as pages flicked through a book, Ross doing most of the talking and then some innocuous comment was made- something shallow and unimportant Francis could never remember after though of the tried to pin to it blame too heavy for the poor load in the failure and the catalyst for all that it was to lead up to in the wrecks afterward and then- and then- and then-

“No I will bloody well not take the man as a- a- a- lover!” he hissed the last word out and it whistled through his teeth sharp as a bullet.

“Why ever not?” if the man was shocked by his oldest friend’s mercurial temper, he did not let the emotion rise to the surface- practise, perhaps, at being the man’s friend for too long. “You already share rooms together, the hard part is already over and done!”

“Yes, but that was-“

“You like him, Francis. Like him as a man and a friend, and I am certain you would like him as a lover.”

“Are you indeed?” he sputtered, mind still reeling from the shock.

Ross sat forward then, all humour gone and earnest in a way that Francis still hadn’t learnt to navigate sober, in a way that made the desire to turn his head away almost too overwhelming to bear, he bit the inside of his mouth and tasted blood. “I _know_ you, Francis. My God, do I know you, and there has never been anyone more right for you than James Fitzjames. If you would only tell the man, blast it, then you would find happiness like you have never known.”

“James-“

“No!” the man cut him short a second time and had it not been for the poor lightning in the room that allowed Francis to fell himself his eyes were most certainly not brimming with tears he would not have stayed put in his chair any longer. “Here you stand: survivor of South Pole, North Pole, admiralty and knighthood though we thought you dead. The letter I got after you sailed- I - after all hope had been lost many times over, Ann had to- I had to- you were so lonely, I thought you had died lonely.”

Slowly, Francis shook his head, meaning to convey that it was not James’ fault and it never was and it never would be, and at any rate he had roused himself from his bed to come and save them, but thoughts coming to the fore too late before he ploughed on again. “Now you are here and you’ve a chance not to be lonely- by God, Francis, you will take this chance.”

“I- James, I- I appreciate the sentiment more than perhaps even you know, but there- there are external circumstances to consider- I can’t just…”

“Why?” Ross bellowed; face twisting with a weight that might just well have been grief. “Why the devil- _life_ , Francis, you have been given a second chance at life itself! Can you not find any modicum of joy in this?”

“I can, but it doesn’t solve anything.” The confession spilling out of his heart was pitch black, an ink blot unfurling in the thick air. Chattering, music and laughter was filtering up from the rooms below and never had Francis felt more haggard and lonely than in the silence screaming into the two foot separating them. _I should not be keeping him up here, he cannot be enjoying himself_. Except neither was he, and the man sitting in front of his victim was the only soul in the world he could tell without fear of anything and the hope of anything. Misery, as Francis knew he personified, loved company. _Though if I had company then perhaps…_

He inhaled, and let Ross demand to know, “Why not? Is this about the melancholy again, because truly, Francis, you cannot tell me that Fitzjames would not make you happy.”

“He would, and he does. But after a while, I would bring ruin to the situation once again. It’s- I- _James_.” Ross pressed his hand and the truth spilt out in a shattering floe of ice, interspersed with pauses the worse for not being sobs. “Very often I have been the happiest man in the world, yes, but then… a, a change begins- something- something starts to twist itself around and the old feelings creep up again. _I_ creep up again. I… I fear I was not born to be happy, James.”

“Now that is pure rot and I know it, even if you don’t!”

“No, James, you don’t. I’m not- it doesn’t matter what I try to do, or how good life may get, it doesn’t stop the emptiness from coming back. _It will always come back_.”

“But _why_?” Ross, his oldest, dearest, dearest friend beseeched. “ _Why_ , Francis? For what reason?”

Slowly, Francis shook his head. “There is no reason.”

“But…”

“No. there’s- I’ve had fifty years thinking about this, for Christ’s sake. I’m broken. Broken… and empty. A- A well, if you like. Too deep to see the bottom and it takes everything. I poured whiskey down it, and now that is lost to me- though I gladly admit it had little improving effect. I will not drown James in that well, too.”

Voices rose suddenly, high in the air: a spell broken between them and they stood simultaneously as their chairs squealed over the floorboards, although they were neither frozen nor cramped in _Terror_ ’s great cabin. And then a large expanse of frozen waste was between them and Francis felt bereft and lonely again, tethered only when Ross clapped his shoulder and joked about the guests missing their famous duo, couched in references to some part of a culture he had not been privy to for the last four years.

“Yes,” his voice stuttered and shook as his heart trembled. “Yes- we should- James will be wondering where we’ve gone.” It was the very thing he should never have allowed to be spoken to the light of day; he knew it at once and regretted it as soon as the smirk stretched across Ross’ face. _Buggering Christ, have I not suffered enough this evening?_

But this seemingly was penance for being spared the conclusion of the previous topic of their conversation and Lady Fate had apparently judged him still too young of the lesson that beggars could not be choosers. “Careful, Francis, else the man’ll make you so happy you will soon find yourself participating in the Easter celebrations.”

Francis gave a snort of conviction. “No, I won’t.”

 

***

The umpteenth curse word of the morning broke the quiet air of the drawing room. Had he known before boarding the _HMS Enterprise_ that they would be returning to a London (and the capital, only, it would seem, as Blanky’s recent correspondence remained cheerfully ignorant of bunnies or bonnets or eggs) obsessed with Easter, Francis would have thrown himself into the Berring Strait and left the men to deal with the horror themselves. Tuunbaq he could survive, the arctic he could escape, sharing a cabin with his second as they all huddled in an _Erebus_ groaning with overcapacity and wounded he had endured, but paper chains he could do none of the aforementioned and were, thus, a step too far. His foot slipped and he decided that contemplating his misfortune would be best left to times he was not at the top of an eight foot ladder, bedecked with the paper chains he’d been beseeched to decorate the place with.

“Francis!” the front door clattered open- one- two- and swung back so far it hit the hall wall before James could catch it, as it had every time he entered their tiny lodgings since moving in three months ago.

Let it never be said that living together had been Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier’s idea- _that_ had been all Captain Fitzjames, who, in the interests of conserving their half pay (a less pressing concern than before, now they had promotion apiece and James’ family was by no means destitute) had veritably frogmarched Francis into the second bedroom and declared it his from that point onwards. For all his grumblings, it had never once occurred to Francis to leave.

So that was the way they now lived: cramped, warm, guilty and content, refusing to step foot inside either Arctic Circle again lest the ghosts left in graves of ice colder than hell rose to swamp them. Francis was very sorry to admit it, but even the Chinese sniper story had lost its grating edge. _I have gotten old_ he mourned, pinning the last paper chain to the wall. Sober, he couldn’t remember ever being so patient- at this, his mood brightened somewhat. One good thing had come from the nightmare, at least… At a conservative estimate he had maybe twenty years of life remaining to his name, and he planned for all of them to be sober. It was not a bad existence, truly, though unexpected. If his fellow lodger only didn’t crash through the front door much the same as an excited dog every time he came home, existence would be damn near fine enough.

“Francis?” called him again. “Francis where _are_ you?”

Early on in their tenancy, James had returned with a wheedle in his tone that he immediately knew meant an event both of them were required to attend and neither of them would enjoy, and when asked if he was home had steadfastly answered ‘no’ before realising mere seconds later the irony of the statement and thus repeated himselfwhen the drawing room door was pushed open. The man had doubled over laughing hard enough to fall over and smiled to himself at any mention of the exchange for so many weeks afterwards that Francis had endured the teasing all whilst marvelling at how the trite interactions of little consequence could let the man shine bright as the sun. “In here!”

“Where is ‘here’?”

“In the drawing room, where else? Putting up these bloody useless decorations you are enamoured with nearly as much as your own reflection!”

An indignant squawk, then a pause as he walked closer and prepared his own retort for a war neither of them much minded losing.

The insult never came and Francis nearly fell off the ladder as the door opened, deeply concerned about this turn of events seeing as “J-“he stopped. A look of awe was draped over the younger man’s face, a delight greater than any Grace imaginable. The silence stretched over them, tossing them upin its jaw as it stretched and yawned- so large thatif it weren’t for the look on James’ face, the fear would have had Francis tumbling down the ladder, seizing his shoulders and demanding he insult him with the foulest words he knew.

“Oh, Francis!”

His heart began to twist in earnest along with his guts- the damned things’ wriggling threatened to tear his clothes off; tear him apart fairly naked and horribly exposed. “What, what is it? I have done it all exactly as you ordered. Anything the matter with it is entirely your own bloody-“

“Nothing’s the matter!” he was only a modicum of restraint from clapping his hands together. “It looks absolutely marvellous, Francis. Thank you.”

“Hmph. Well- if it grants me a reprieve from your incessant talking, of course I’ll put the effort in.” Even _that_ didn’t dim the smile on his stupid face. Francis felt a burning all the way down his chest, familiar and longing, but he hadn't had even a swallow of whiskey for nigh over a year; the only other time was when he first saw Sophia- oh. _Oh, bollocks_. Ross’ teasing was one thing, but outright confrontation with the pure, emotional evidence of his feelings from infatuation into love was quite another, this wouldn’t do, this was, this was, _bollocks_.

As if from a great distance away, he became aware that James was still talking, and fought against the battering tide to try and listen- perhaps his dignity could at least come out of this intact. “Lady Ann was very kind and just as enthusiastic about the celebration as well, what with this being the first year all of the children will remember. Their house was stuffed to the brim with decorations, so she kindly lent me some going spare.”

Too late, he noticed the daffodil-coloured crepe bonnet James had brought home with him. Unbidden, Francis snorted, “If you think I’ll be wearing that bloody thing you can piss off.”

Confusion and hurt clouded James’ face, then Francis nodded down at the affecting artifice and the expression cleared into yet more joy. (It was as if the sun had come out.) “Alas, no- though Ross advised me that you look fine in a bonnet with such knowledge on the subject it may well be scandalous, this is all mine.”

“And so it had best remain that way! Besides, it does not look so hideous on you.” The last sentence was added as a muttered aside at the same time James was miming swooping the bonnet on top of his head, though ever mindful of his hair that he had kept perfectly styled since their return. The delicate frills, long dark-coloured body and the delighted, upturned lips still red from wind chill started to curdle in Francis’ gut and began to ebb lower. Without thinking, he met James’ eyes when the man looked up at him- in shock, no doubt, or horror, or- James was smiling.

“I mean- ah-“he floundered. “I only meant- not that it _doesn’t_ look hideous on you, no- wait-“every word dug him deeper and a burning sick feeling mixed with previous lust and he felt dizzy with it, sure he was about to swoon at any moment. Some goddamn mistress in a Penny Dreadful-

“Oh, no, Francis, I know exactly what you meant, do not even think about taking it back!” James was grinning, five steps ahead of him as _he_ had no exact idea what he had meant. No idea at all. Words were still coming from the other’s mouth that made little sense, “I may even wear it to Sunday Service and put all the other ladies to shame with my good looks.”

Sun- Francis wasn’t going to Sunday Service, he was going to hide away indoors until every ribbon, candy, card and decoration had vanished into the pursuit of summer. “You do that,” he agreed, forcing the smile down his throat and doing his best to tamper all thoughts lower down as well. Right or wrong answer he’d never know, for James just flashed him a wide grin and bounded out of the room in pursuit of ribbons, leaving Francis stood frozen at the top rung of the ladder with the end of the last paper chain drooping expectantly in his hand, the only thought running through his head coherently: _bloody bunnies_!

 

***

 

“Francis?”

“What?” came the gruff bark of an answer.

James smiled sweetly, “Nothing.”

“Humph!” there was a rustling as the man went back to his paper, and James only smiled wider, trying to tamper down on the sorrow in his heart. Sometimes, the rooms were too quiet, with just the fire crackling and the clock ticking, and with every small inhalation he felt a piece of himself break away. The gruff Irish brogue more oft than not was tinged with exasperation and ne’er was particularly verdant if he tried to carry on a conversation after teasing, but in seven months he had never failed to answer. At times he felt sure the now-commodore must be feeling the decay too and spoke deliberately to draw him away from whatever book he had chosen that night to hide himself behind, though his fellow lodger never seemed so relieved the convince James that he too knew the pain he was feeling.

Not a pain, he chastised himself, in turn pretending to peruse his own book. The queer, sorrowful ebb and flow that tried to dissolve his heart to salt water most evenings was not really a pain, as such- certainly he was grateful for the reminder he was alive, hale, hearty and here. It was just… I thought it would be different. With internal confession weighing deep on his soul, Captain James Fitzjames stood and addressed the only man who knew why he lacked an array of middle names. “Regretfully, Francis, I am rather tired tonight; I think it’s best I retire now else I’m liable to be in a bear of a mood tomorrow.”

Standing over him as he was, he could see how Francis’ eyes were aborted from snapping up to fix on him as he forced them to dance across the page instead. “Any change to your constant change can only be an improvement, James. But good night, I shall see you in the morning. Do try to be a little less… ebullient, won’t you?”

“I shall be as miserable as you can make me, my friend. Good night.”

The smile upon his face vanished the instant he closed the door on Francis’ smile. Briefly, the idea entered his mind to drown his sorrows with gin, though he immediately put the kibosh on his thoughts and set off towards his bedroom; out of respect for the sober man left in the drawing room and the weariness preventing him from retrieving the key to his bedside drawer from the hook by the kitchen door. The same weariness, however, was very conducive to falling prostrate on top of the mattress. No energy to pull back the covers first, so that when he grew too cold in the April night James did an undignified shuffle of his lower half and crawled beneath, unable to remember if he’d closed the door and unwilling to open his eyes to check. What would the older man have seen in the dark, anyway, when his own room was down the other end of the corridor?

Bold of me to assume he would a, bother to check on any strange noise, b: care for my well-being and c, not laugh outright at my misfortune.

Rolling over brought the realisation he had foregone undressing and changing his small clothes and into his nightshirt and, consequently, was abed fully dressed and hair styled and mussed, crushed under the pillows. James Fitzjames: all dressed up but nowhere to go. He turned over fully, damning his hair and burying his face in the pillow. Erebus had limped from the Arctic, collapsed at the feet of Ross’ rescue aboard _Enterprise_ two miles out from Baffin Bay and with all company they had departed with but for ten men and one ship- and eight of them, Fairholme’s men, had turned up in Canada and made their own way home, arriving back just in time to meet back up with their shipmates in Stromness. No indignity of eating their own boots, the dead victims of circumstances beyond their control (in this case being Tuunbaq and madness respectively). Sailing back to England, James had felt absolutely delighted with his lot and determined to make the best go of his remaining years- a view he still held fast and easily experienced when around others, forcing smiles on his face until they became real and he could talk with fervour again. But listeners and socialites wanted stories of the Arctic: Tuunbaq and fear and Sir John and sailing and Lady Silence and blood and whiskey and fighting polar bears and penguins, with no consideration of the breathlessness he had fought as the horror mounted that Crozier was right and the admiralty had damned him and Sir John was dead and the rest of the company to follow. And- Carnivale. James sobbed, then immediately choked down on the noise and but his lip so hard he drew blood. It tasted like scurvy and he only sobbed harder, pressed deeper into the pillow because this was sunny spring England with no ice to hide a man’s sins. Just frock coats and dinners and social occasions and bedroom doors- he didn’t close the bedroom door- he did- he must have- he should have- he should have- it should have been me- it should have- my fault- my fault- all my fault-

In the cold light of morning, James knew things would not look so bleak: the sun would rise and so would sense, Francis would tell him himself that he must enjoy and live his life for those men that could not and the men that had been mangled irreparably in the beast’s jaws- for Sir John, he would say, voice betraying none of his mixed feelings for the man, just pure and utter kindness for the distraught mess sat across the kitchen table.

He would do it, James knew, for he had done it many times before. Each time duly aiding him to remember that Tuunbaq had killed Sir John, Hickey had quite willingly, voluntarily and madly chosen to approach Tuunbaq instead of climbing aboard Erebus with the rest of the men, the Hudson Bay Company had picked up Fairholme and seven, James himself bore the burned forearms from putting Doctor Stanley out with piles of snow, and if the flames had attracted Tuunbaq the monster would have appeared directly at the same moment, and no one was lost, anyway. On mornings like this James would alternate between cursing and mourning Hickey and fretting what had become of Lady Silence.

“Thank God Goodsir befriended her!”

“Thank Goodsir.”

Which they had said many times, each time every party carefully skirting any mention that the last image of their Esquimaux heroine was charming Tuunbaq away, then being shielded by its massive bulk as it ripped the Caulker’s Mate to pieces beyond count. Though no one was particularly _cut up_ over the death, the collective wish was that it had been perhaps less bloody, and the morbid joke more acceptable.

Francis’ words always helped him beyond measure, every time he recalled them brought to mind the image of them sat up in a single, shared bed together, meticulously completing a jigsaw balanced in their laps on a tray and his thoughts clearing with every piece slotted into its rightful place. But there were other things, things he couldn’t tell his friend, deeper things, darker. That he was in love with the man, for one. And he had been full of fear the whole time he’d been drying out and stuck in delirium. That he was haunted by blood and men torn apart and everything that could have occurred had he not extinguished Stanley- the blame would have been on his shoulders for everything that had happened after. For knowing Sir John was wrong and following anyway. For all the times he had thought Sir John was right. That his life before had been an empty façade and Francis gave every inch of it meaning, and he did not want to go back to sea again and he did not want to leave Francis and he did not want to stay close to Francis lest he discover James was not really worth the friendship after all. Above all else, he was loathe to return to the hotly miserable relations of their early acquaintance- he would be adrift without Francis by his side, and he never wanted to be lost at sea again. Never. He just wanted to stay with Francis, in London where civilised men such as themselves did not have to go near doctors or hospitals or butchers; where he was never at risk of witnessing blood and injuries again, and fires were safely contained to lick their hearths like an obedient dog its master’s hand. Should Francis ever become aware that James desired he stay in London, where he was treated still some savage Irishman in spite of his new knighthood. That James desired they enter into a relationship. That James desired to please Sir John, who was a better father figure to him than any other man, who had said behind Francis’ back too many horrors to bear repeating and that James, for all he fervently disagreed and defended each and every accusation, could see the grain of truth that had formed the core of their commander’s ostensible pearls and still heard them echoed in his own thoughts, ghostly wails down long corridors every time he looked at Francis, though he tried, _tried_ not to.

Every time he thought of kissing Francis he thought of Sir John. The disappointment that would colour his face... James cried harder. Cried until he thought he would drown in salt water; heart dissolving and whipped away in the Arctic leads that were rising up his throat. Arctic leads supernaturally open so late in the autumn, cried, indeed, until he thought for sure Francis would hear him even if every door between their rooms was shut and locked fast, and would be forced to come and investigate the terrible, wet mewling screeches emerging pathetically from his drenched pillow. Francis never came.

 

***

 

Insomnia was a foe indomitable. No amount of whiskey had ever given him a good night’s sleep, no amount of hard work had ever allowed him to dream of nothing. No amount of Second Sight could strip the world away enough to let him sleep. The only time he had ever been close to a normal man’s experience of Morpheus was the same day he and Miss Cracroft had ridden out to the pond. Francis had slept five hours _that_ night, deeply and deathly, unable to recalls if he had dreamed come morning. Such a novelty, as it had been, in darker moods he had been tempted to beseech her for a second trip to Platypus Pond, thinking at the time that the burning confusion of emotions and shame in his lower regions well worth the empty-headedness it provided come sunset.

He never asked.

Briefly, Francis entertained the idea as James retired of going in turn to his own room and taking matters into his own hand, with thoughts full to the brim with a different image of passion, then dismissed the thought as quickly as it has formed. There was little loneliness like that of unsatisfactorily satisfying oneself, and it would only be compacted buy the proximity of the man sleeping peacefully down the corridor and- Francis Crozier was trying to be a better person. _For James_. Ignoring that thought, too, he turned the page and let out a sigh that extinguished in the air of the empty room before it even began to sound like the wind.

 

When he had lost count of the clock’s ticking, he felt the cold cloud of sleep settle over him. The clock tolled at that same moment, informing him that it had only been five minutes since James had left for bed, which couldn’t be right and neither could sleep be coming to claim him before the close of day. Yet it was, and he was tired. _I’ll get a crick in my neck_ and then he was asleep.

 

***

 

The sky disappears from a long white morgue slab to some long white insidious expanse, and then there is terrible, wrenching, crippling pain somewhere below him, life spins into a blue and he is flying. The pain grows with the beating of the drum, until he is screaming, and then the cold comes. _I am in the sea. For the first time in my life, I am in the sea. How extraordinary_. Even the Arctic Sea is salt water. Black water surrounds him. There’s nothing but water the same colour as bruises. Cold, colder, colder sill, then some part of him is burning as cold air stings it- inhaling, he is breathing. _Thank you, dear Jesus, Lord..._ Daylight comes, also white- all of it white, everything white- white- blinding white- _Jesus_ \- white- _the Lord God Almighty shewed me the light_.

Darkness rises. Absolute darkness. The air becomes rank with the smell and taste of carrion. The teeth close around his face and ears, its mouth is warm and most, reeking, carrion, death. A crunch. Blackness. Complete blackness. Not blackness- oblivion. There is nothing and no Jesus here, just him. He is here with nothing, forever.

 

***

 

There was a brief moment of screaming before his voice cracked and shattered to pieces in his throat, and then there was nothing but the ragged inhalations that kept him alive. Alive, and dreaming. A choked sound escaped his lips, its owner no more able to tell if it were a sob or a laugh than God himself. He realised he had at some point waking or dreaming slid out of his armchair and landed with his arse on the floor, lop-sided as a child’s rag doll and the taste of Second Sight was in his mouth: flowers and whiskey. Sound was pick-axing away at his brain, which after a few minutes he identified as his cufflink tapping against the leg of the chair. Francis peered closer down at his wrist. His hands were shaking- _all of him_ was shaking. Shaking, shirt stuck uncomfortably to his back, soaked through with sweat and saltwater, though not tears, thank Christ- had he been drinking? Where was Jopson? Where was he? Where was the whiskey? Where was James?

His room. Their rooms. London. Coherence gradually marched back and restored his brain to order: London, The Arctic, James, _James_. Everything was alright now and they had survived. Everything was alright and so was James Fitzjames.

Francis inhaled properly and in the silence that followed (he curled his arms around him and shook to pieces in his own embrace) could just make out the distant snores and snuffles of breath. James was asleep. Asleep, in London, and everything was alright. It was just Captain Crozier. Silly old Captain Crozier who’d had a bad dream, liable to wake James up if he didn't pull himself together.

On the end of a shaky exhale he buried his face in his hands, completely deluged by a wretched, wretched feeling. _Pull yourself together, man! What would Sir John say_? Francis began to sob. The ate rear admiral, when alive, had occupied most of his thoughts as ‘that utter bastard’, but his words had hurt, his actions had hurt, his death had hurt and- what was more-: hurt James. And Francis had been so drunk he could hardly remember the funeral. Surely, though, he must have acted downright beastly as James hadn’t talked to him for days afterwards; Francis wasn’t drunk at all now, yet was still acting so beastly by mourning the silence of the man he hadn’t even liked at the time, instead of the man who had actually suffered and perished. Who had, at one point, been a friend.

And there was the crux of it, sharp as the nails pinning Jesus to the Cross. That was a reference the late rear admiral would have- delighted in? Found scandalous? He no longer knew _what_ to think of the man. Only that he died knowing his Second only drunken and bastardly and melodramatic and hard to love and he had done nothing to disprove him of anything.

Another shaky exhale, sitting back against the chair and slumping further to the floor, reminded painfully that he was too old to be doing such things and too vice-ridden to allow himself the cold comfort of melancholy any longer. For one pitiful second he wondered if James had woken up, and why, if roused, he did not come and investigate the source of such commotion before shaking himself firmly. Steeling himself, Francis stood before slowly making his way towards his own bedroom, down the opposite end of the hall from the other. A very long way from the other.

“Stop this,” he struck the edge of the door frame with his fist as his face creased into the familiar lines of a frown- it felt like shrugging into a favourite coat and he took his free hand (the first, it seemed, now in dire need of support to keep him upright) and scrubbed the frown away/ had he not hours ago been thinking on how he was trying to become a better person? An itinerary that did not include melancholia, bitterness or bad dream, or being a burden to one of the men dearest to him. Images flashed through his head. Bullet holes leaking sunlight. A smile as a boat rocked on the sea. The horrible reality of scurvy mixed with old wounds. Eyes shot with blood and tired, so tired. James was tired and Francis was not going to inflict him with his own insomnia. He straightened his frame and heaved himself over the threshold and into his own room; snugly acquainting the door with the latch brought such a wave of relief he was nearly ashamed at its intensity, and nearly dead on his feet to care, stripping at will with random peaks of energy and madness, he fell into bed half-dressed; woke up in the breaking hours of the day to find himself dangling nearly off the edge of the mattress, with one hand reaching out during some prophetic dream and finding only dirty garments instead. They, like the few articles still bequeathing him, reeked of sweat and had dried stiff with it. He hid them in the bottom of the wash basket, away from James, half-expecting to feel the cool, smooth surface of a whiskey bottle under his hand.

 

***

 

My dear Mr Clark Ross (FRS, BSE, SOB, etc),

How is the continent treating you? And dear Ann? There are no penguins in Spain, that we know of, but I have faith in your ability to get yourself involved in hijinks and misdemeanours wherever you go. No doubt the weather can only be an improvement in that which hangs over those friends you have left behind: Great English Spring is upon us. It rains in the morning, it rains in the afternoon, it rains in the evening. It occasionally stops raining at some point late in the night, but I am the only one awake to notice.

Thank you for visiting us before your departure- you and Ann both, it was invigorating to see you. And it convinced my errant companion that I do, in fact, have friends other than him. About- the perils of my lodging is I never got you alone, James dear, but... you were right. (You always are.) About Fitzjames... you were right. And I cannot summon up even an ounce of loathing towards you for it. You know me far too well, which I cannot loathe you for, either.

Enough of me- give my blessings to Ann, and try to keep the two of you safe on your jaunts. Though I know you are not completely content without a frisson of adventure, just bear in mind that you are not at sea now, with your wife an appropriate mileage away to avoid her wrath should you do something foolish. I would hate for you to lose a body part (or two, if you upset her very badly). For the love of God, come back quicker than you did from the Arctic; four years without you is an awfully long, cold time and neither of us are getting any younger.

Before you left London, you wrote me and asked how I was- there was no mention of the letter at dinner, but the question was in your eyes and I could see it. Quite clearly I see you here, now, even though you have been gone nigh on a fortnight: merry, smiling. Settled across the fireplace in a drawing room much humbler than your own, but making no comment on it. Asking questions, japing, talking, flirting, making Fitzjames laugh- an act I cannot thank you enough for. I just mean, he has been an awfully miserable bastard as of late, and I am tiring of it. There was nothing to indicate three quarters of us had been to any sort of ice-covered place and seen the Devil, which may have been the reason Ann was smiling so brightly. May be, also, that you have not voice any concerns about me in your missive to her, else I’m sure she would not have skirted around the issue entirely other than in complete benevolent ignorance. James, dear, you have no need to worry for me, I give you my word. You may- and should, and deserve to- enjoy your travelling, without fear you have left a burning fuse travelling towards a bundle of dynamite back home. At our partings previously I will freely admit I was... not all myself. Or too much myself, depending upon whom you may ask. No doubt this tradition inspired fraught nerves on _both_ our parts, which I do not blame you for. I do not blame you for your footnote, either, I simply apologise because it read very terrified and I hate the thought of causing you such fret. There is no need to worry about me at all.

I’d a dream the other night- see, I do sleep- Fitzjames spoke Inuktitut and bade me do a lot of nonsense, but also beseeched me some words that sounded a lot like comfort. ‘This snow too shall melt’.

Conversely, I will not then turn round and say to you that everything within me has been put to rights. You identified, even before I myself did, that the old black dog was creeping up to the door again, begging for scraps. But that’s all it will receive from me and my humble household: scraps. It shall retreat with its tail ‘tween its legs soon enough- I live with Captain James Fitzjames, don’t forget, the most exasperating man in the British Navy, and if he drives me to my wit’s end you can only imagine his effect upon various, non-sentient beasts. I promise you with all my heart that I am nearly completely recovered again now; I do not expect the damned dog to return for quite some time. I am lonely, yes, but I am not bitter or unhappy or drunk anymore, James dear. So only hurry back if you are sure I am about to commit murder towards my fellow lodger. Even then, I think he could talk his way out of it.

Bless you, and Ann, and your journey, and your weather and I remain, as ever, your horrid radical and indifferent speller- Francis Crozier.

P.S. Fitzjames has just informed me Portugal does not have penguins either, but creatures called ‘texugos horríveis’. He found an entry in an encyclopaedia I have cut out and included- an uncanny resemblance, don’t you think?

 

***

 

Thomas- this is a brief missive, I’m afraid, though you did not prove me with an extended letter of correspondence either, so I suppose it is only fair. Things are all very good though rather damp down here. How is Yorkshire? Esther? The girls? The inn? Is there spare lodging goings, as I fear it is going to be teabags at dawn for me and Fitzjames. I value him as captain, but you as well as I know he is a buggering ninny at the best of times, a big girl’s blouse at the worse. I pity Bridgens the years stewarding him- promotion and pension was not enough for the man, I am sure, having experienced prolonged cohabitation with the esteemed captain for myself.

You, too, asked after me, and I tell you, too, that there is no need to worry. I am doing just fine and rather well. The next you hear of me, I will be on the front page of the broadsheet, first man ever to use ‘exasperation’ as a defence in a murder trial. Still: fine. Dandy. Spiffing. Hearty. Hale any other words you want to call it. There’s no need to come haring down from your throne in Yorkshire solely to come and check up on me. Do though, if you feel so inclined, write and drop in next time you have to come down for any reason. Give me fair enough warming, I may even be sociable.

A joke, lest you worry yourself- merely a joke, Thomas, I promise you.

Do you remember that night back in Tangiers, with the dogs? Given how much we all drank, I would forgive you if not , but in the sober and sickening light of morning when you were still half drunk and not too sober, you waxed philosophical, as is your want when half pissed. You said (though I remember not any conversation or context for this, it is purely the one line) ‘you’ve just got to try and be a bit less shit. That’s all anyone can do’. Truer words were never spoken, so true they ought to be in the Bible. Possibly they are in Leviathans, Book Thirteen?

Should you get time between family and daughters and inns, try and have a browse of the Bible and see- it will, if nothing else, make you laugh, yours- Francis Crozier.

 

***

 

In spite of the undercurrent as cold as the Arctic that was seemingly meandering through his life as a now-permanent fixture, Francis Crozier has not been lying when he wrote to various people and described himself as ‘fine’ using various adjectives. At least- not outright, or at least, had believed himself fine. Or, would be fine... Or, was not as bad as he once was. In his quest to try and be a little less shit, he was periodically reminding himself not to be unhappy, or as and when the need arose. ‘Whiskey’ was an unutterable word in their house, and whenever one James Fitzjames pressed him into an excursion that seemed designed to oppose his every nature, he made himself and go and kept the bickering light-hearted. (He had tried to keep it non-existent, but it just couldn’t be done.) Done solely, he never failed to remind himself, because the man was his friend and it wouldn’t do for the both of them to be melancholic and bad-tempered, not at all because he harboured any sort of... desire for the man.

Which was why, on this early April morning as the sky pissed buckets, Francis was going to rouse the man in time so they weren’t late for the torturous day ahead- because James had been in high spirits about the upcoming visit for weeks past and Francis- Francis could think of no better sight than a smile on his face. _Oh, buggering hell!_

Shoving open the bedroom door with a hardly-necessary snarl, Francis marched upon the bed and shook its inhabitant’s shoulder rather roughly. “James? James! Wake up, you great English oaf! Else we’ll be late to the torture you have planned for me today!”

“Hnffghlkkugll.”

Though he tried to resist, he felt the urge to smile creep up his face: asleep, pyjama-clad, abed, James’ hair was an atrocious sight, dangling here and there into the puddle of drool under his cheek, and his face was young and unlined. He shook harder- the man was no morning skylark. “James Fitzjames unless you wake up right now you will leave the house with your hair looking like a bird’s nest that has been dragged backwards through a hedgerow!”

 _That_ had an effect. The man sat bolt upright, oblivious to any back twinge that Francis knew existed solely within his own vertebra as proof of old age, his eyes unseeing and nose scrunched up. “Aglooka? Snow’s meltin’, Aglooka.”

Floodgates of ice opened in Francis; heart and he froze. _Unhand him_ , but his fingers were frozen frost-bitten on James’ shoulder. “Nmf- oh! Francis? Oh- _oh_ \- good morning?”

“Yes, well,” he sputtered, a blush hooking its way up his face with huge claws to present itself traitorously as he realised that James had slept naked. “I- well, it won’t be a very good morning if you make us late, will it?”

“Hmm- what- is the viewing not until this afternoon?”

“What the bloody hell- then why did I- just, I thought- oh for the love of God just put some bloody fucking clothes on whilst I-“ the anger sputtered and he coughed, clearing his throat awkwardly and terribly unsure where he was meant to put his free hand. James’ eye caught the fluttering, then moved up and across his shoulders, down the other arm, past the elbow, to where his left hand was still clutching James’ shoulder. Francis took flight. “Ah, well, I will just- _make tea_ ,” declared he, stumbling out of the room in haste.

The door slammed shut- inadvertently, this time, James noted by the aborted curse he caught sound of before footsteps scuffed down the hall to the kitchen, leaving him with just one thought within his sleep-addled brain: what in God’s name was all that about?

To be certain it was the most panicked tea-making in English History, as evidenced by the clattering table echoing like church bells from down the hall. James bit back a bemused smile. The man was infuriating enough to wake the dead, but when he blushed he did so up to the roots of his red Irish hair. _Just like an English rose_. His thoughts writhed- English, neither of them were, yet he was still an English oaf in Francis’ eyes. Did that bode well or ill, that the man he’d been certain hated him for the first two thirds of their acquaintance refused to acknowledge the darkest secrets of his soul and in doing so kept up to the lie to every other person in the world and saved James’ soul?

It was a question for which he had no answer; an awful lot of answerless questions were occurring to him lately, flitting through his brain and mingling with the restless ghosts that couldn’t rest until James’ hand closed their eyes. He stretched his hand out before him unbidden, pale and thin, fingers nearly trembling with every breath he drew. He let it drop. His were no hands of a saint and he’d no means to soothe anyone’s ghosts, least of all his own. _No Saint, just James_.

Thankfully, he pulled the stage curtain over his facial expression before Francis cleared the threshold again, looming grey and hollowed over the bed and spilling the tea over onto James’ fingers and duvet before apologising as he flinched back. “Sorry! Sorry.”

If in 1845 a fortune teller would have told James that his response to an apology from one Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier would be to shake his head, take the proffered tea cup (Francis had picked out his favourite teacup, despite always complaining that it was ‘no different from the rest of the bloody china’) and murmuring, “No need, the fault is entirely mine,” and then, to fill in the somewhat awkward pause by adding on, “We have to view that ship today, don’t we?” Why, James would not have believed them.

“The _HMS Agamemnon?_ Yes.”

“Oh- well, I suppose I must get up, then.” Conscious he was without a nightshirt and had forgone his curling papers, he ran a sheepish hand over the clumped, unwashed mess that was now the back of his head. “You are entirely right just this once, Francis- it wouldn’t do to go out looking as if you’d just pulled my pigtails to pieces.” The boom and rolling of laughter he expected did not come- was, was that disappointment he felt?

Francis shrugged, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking uncomfortable the same way he did during Admiralty dinners. The expression on his face was another question James could not answer. He would not mind sending a lifetime answering it. “We are not due there ‘til one. Rest if you want to.”

What followed could only be described as a grave: an empty six foot expanse of soil which neither man knew how to fill.

“What did you dream about?”

Before he could think to stop himself, James lowered his tea cup and replied, with a cutting smirk, “Instead of me in the dress, _you_ were Britannia.”

“I see,” Francis chuckled. “That’s an idea to certainly strike fear of death into the hearts of men.”

“You can’t honestly tell me you have never dressed up, Francis? I recall you and Ross had many a story about how you escorted him to the Ice Ball back in the Antarctic.”

There was laughter in his voice now; posture relaxing with every second the clock ticked off and leaning languidly against the door frame of James’ room as if he belonged there. “I haven’t the figure for a dress.” He fitted in amidst the dark panelling on the walls and curtained windows and books and papers; dark blue clothes etching him into the foreground and his smiling face- the moon, James thought in awe. The moon over the sea at night.

“I think your figure is just fine myself.” Francis choked on his next words, then swallowed them. _Oh bugger_ , James thought.

“I’ll- I’ll leave you to your tea, then,” he said eventually. “You must be in dire need of a drink to be paying me a compliment.”

“Was that a compliment?” affecting his most dramatic mannerisms and seizing the way out of the awkwardness he had damned them both to, he widened his eyes in put-upon astonishment. “Well, I certainly never intended for it to be taken so!” Francis giggled all the way down the hall.

 

***

 

The masts of the _HMS Agamemnon_ that loomed over the two of them were nearly lost amidst the bellowing and smoking chimneys of the dockyards around them. Certainly conversations held any further apart than two feet were lost; work was roaring all around. Yawning and roaring and clambering and pounding its paws towards progress and future at breakneck pace. Breathing in, James’ mouth was coated grey with soot and he felt ostensibly _alive_ \- workers and dock hands scurried about, rendering the place in constant motion as if the whole five miles were actually balanced on the sea itself and at night, he knew, this never changed or altered. The men that flooded out at the end of each day were met with returning workers, drunks, whores and doxies as befitting the city that never slept. _It is Saturday_ , he realised with a dislocated alarm he scarcely felt. Every man would be pressing through these docks the same night, just in a spare few hours, and be awake most of the night and many even throughout the morning. An unholy place, James knew, unholy and wretched and dreadful, yet he could make his excuses, and find his way back here this evening. Doubtless he would not be the first navy captain to indulge in the cardinal pleasures, even in England. And it was not as if this would be his first time indulging in any sort of cardinal pleasure in the decrepit slums of an English dock yard... the ship, you fool, focus on the ship else Francis will notice something is amiss!...Nice... lovely job on the mainmast... aft... foredeck... ames? James Fitzjames, have you been ignoring every word I say?

“No?”

“Hmph!”

“On the contrary, Francis, I latch onto your every word as if I’m on the edge of my seat.”

The accompanying snort of disbelief wrenched his heart, just a little, and he found himself unsteady on his feet, running his tongue over his teeth with a furrowed brow, convinced they no longer fit his skull though he knew that the idea was ridiculous- they fit fine yesterday.

James sighed. In truth, the last few days had unhinged him terribly; most of his waking hours were akin to standing on a boat for the first time. Sleep was oft beyond him, providing no relief when it did take him and he could not, for the life of him, identify and articulate exactly what was wrong or what would make it any better. Worst of all: he felt guilty, fraudulent and overwhelmed with the need to apologise, conflicted if it would make Francis think any less of him.

“Francis,” he began suddenly inordinately tired and in no fit state to do anything but go home and got to bed, much less take up any opportunity he had herewith to been considering. “I am sorry, Francis, truly, I- I fear I am not very good company today.”

“You hardly need to redeem that particular flaw to me of all people,” buried in the replying voice was concern and wry amusement and friendship like James had never known. “Only- God, _speak_ to me, you incorrigible man! Is it the navy? The admiralty? The ship?”

A smile skinned his lips open, “What if it was? Would you down to Woolwich and demand they retract all slights upon my honour as if I were a high-class lady and you my avenging husband?”

“I might!” Francis growled.

The imagined tableau was absurd, and the exact stunt he could imagine Francis pulling. He huffed out a laugh, “Calm yourself- even if t’were the bloody navy, you would not go storming down there to defend _my honour_ , of all things. What would Jopson and Blanky say if you lost your knighthood?”

“Damn the buggering thing, I hate the dress uniform anyhow. What is it, then, if it’s not the admiralty? What else do you have to fret over?”

Nothing, really- compared to the men and dockhands and the rest of the city James exceeded standards of even ‘well off’. That he lived in shared rooms and survived on an officer’s half pay with a downtrodden Irish man was through his own choice, any means of escape and opportunity lay open to him in every sphere and there was nothing to worry about. The admiralty would find use for two esteemed Arctic heroes soon enough, and if they were unhappy with that use they could retire with little or no change to their circumstances. But... Francis required an answer that was not anything akin to ‘my heart is undergoing a sea change and you are a flame that will not be drowned in it’.

“It’s- I- did you read the paper, yesterday morning? The meteorologists down in Cornwall think it will be a cold Spring, and there was even talk tomorrow we, in stodgy old London, may be able to see the Aurora Borealis if we stay up late enough and the cloud cover dissipates. What causes it, I wonder? You took all the readings and what-have-yous about the magnetisms, after all- I’m still sorry about that business, by the way. Do you have any idea, or any of the fellows at the Observatory? There must be some change they can monitor, or detect so that they can predict-“

“James.” The interruption was neither gruff nor unkind. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

James did not know wither. “’A particularly frozen and mild April’, those were their exact words. I hope it will not snow again- not least because it ruins a man’s boots, getting damp and entrenched in the slush as they do when it snows, but I do not mind if the snowflakes do not settle, _then_ it looks rather pretty. Like a Christmas card, don’t you think? Does it ever snow in Ireland, Francis? It’s only a few miles over the sea- hardly the Northwest Passage, for Christ Sakes, but they way you talk about the place on the few occasions you do, one would be forgiven for thinking there ne’er was a similarity between there and here! Do you even celebrate Christmas?”

“There is more countryside, less cities. Bigger fields. But it is the same, more or less, identical. People mostly even speak English now.”

“Good, good- that’s good.” In the back of his thoughts it occurred to him that the comment could be construed as horribly insensitive, given that the English government had been horribly insensitive to anyone from the isle seventy miles west, but on trying to engage his mouth to follow his brain he found that at some the point the connections linking the two had been cut.

“And it gets cold there and here- we’ll all be suffering an inclement April together, hmm? Barrow heard a rumour he mentioned last time he wrote me- the admiralty may be thinking of sending a ship or two round Ireland, right round the place, obviously. Not quite the Spanish Armada, though close enough. Would you go, should the expedition become reality? Back to Ireland? Even if the navy decides not to, would you consider it anyway, if given the opportunity to go back? Do you think about it?”

It took Francis a very long time to answer. His face was unreadable, James was fraught with nerves and something burning the lining of his stomach beseeched him to run, run, run as fast as he could in a new direction and never stop so he would no longer have to think again. James didn't think he wanted to know the answer. It was a question he did not even know he was asking until it had come bubbling up unprecedented and incoherent, but by then it was too late to retract it; in the interim of consideration they had drifted apart from one another as buoys on the open sea, distance between their elbows gaining with every second and the wind biting at his ribs and cheeks without Francis there to shield him. He had gone very cold all of a sudden. A black hole grew when the commodore opened his mouth. “Are you trying to say you want me to leave?” A smile was attempted, teeth were bared, and perfectly level at his throat but James knew Francis would never, even at a detriment to his own life. “Have you grown sick of me already?”

 _The man looks distraught_ \- the man was Francis- “No!” too loud, but James had no time to stop. Before the shock had even fully formed on Francis’ face he had seized the man by the shoulders and was shaking him lightly, clinging tighter than he would to a lifeline “No, Francis, my God I am not sick of you. Rather-“his fingers faltered “-rather I am worried you may be sick of me.” His fingers let go. He stepped back, feeling foolish and stupid, head bowed in shame.

Eyes lowered as his were, James did not see the bereft look that flittered over Francis’ face in the moment before the sun went behind the clouds and he resorted to his usual heavy scowling. His voice, when he spoke, grated harshly in the air as of two rocks being forced to slide past each other in inadequate space. “That is without a doubt the single most foolish, idiotic, ridiculous idea that I have ever heard in my whole life, and I don’t forget I have heard every foolish, idiotic, ridiculous idea that had entered your head for the past four years!”

The growl that had mere moments ago inspired James to laugh was now directed at him; a great hand tilted his head even lower, looking more pathetic than any captain of the British Royal Navy had any right to. “Francis-“

“No!” a knife cut across his protests and lopped any chance of response away, falling far into the sea below. Golden bubbling trickled down North of them- the other members of the navy, audience, public that were scheduled for the ship viewing they had arrived early for were no longer far off. Francis snarled. Given the way James sunk further back into his hunched shoulders, he took it to be directed at him and not the intruding rabble. “We’ll continue this later,” he seethed, ending the conversation by turning his back on the man to face the approaching vultures, hoping he had pulled himself together by the time they were in greeting’s distance and none of them could notice he was distracted by the silly thoughts running through James Fitzjames’ head. _Bloody fucking Englishmen_!

 

***

 

“Tell us more about China, Captain!” begged the socialites. The Captain obeyed, and the evening was good. Except everyone referred to him as ‘Captain Fitzjames’, even Commodore Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier (FRS), who the Captain begged desperately inside his head to revert to calling him ‘James’ again. Even in the context of ‘tell us the one about Bird Shit Island again, James’, it would have been greatly appreciated.

Alas, twas not to be. Francis referred to him by his rank all evening, and took up Parry’s offer to view a later night exhibition at the Tate (much to James’ surprise) without so much as a perfunctory, socially-required goodbye. “...was very kind of the Chinese Sniper to aim not for my right side, but my left. The bullet hit my arm- went through- and then struck m, right over the heart! But enough energy had been expanded on my aforementioned arm, so it didn't pierce too deeply and that, gentlemen, is how I am here today to tell you the tale.”

“And what of the Arctic, Captain Fitzjames, Sir? What of the Arctic!” the others seated round the table took up the cry, to which James smiled and told them of 1846 in Baffin Bay, derring-do and the great storm that cracked open the icy leads enough for them to escape the biggest polar bear on God’s Earth. Not one mention of Sir John or Hickey, every man was un-maimed and Sir John had died of an illness in his sleep. Within his memories he could feel this created narrative slotting itself into place: shuffling up beside ugly truths and bloody mouths to match his own smile. A jigsaw puzzle previously made up of sixty paces, now one hundred and twenty and all the better for being filled out so as to never now feel emptiness. True or untrue, everyone in attendance at the dinner that night left with their own smiles, which tided James over until he handed over his ticket to the attendant at the cloak room and out of habit turned to ask Francis if he had managed to enjoy himself just this once. Memory returned and drowned every fictional character. The whole village was submerged and the water rose higher and higher until not even the church steeple could be seen poking out from under the deluge. Sighed. Pulled his around himself coat tightly. Began the long walk home.

 

Passing the gallery, it occurred to him to go and find Francis and Parr but- ah, no. _If they wanted me they would have invited me_. Every step of the return journey the water drained away; in its wake lay the skeleton of the town and its heart was the ugly secret of truth: no one wanted James Fitzjames. Tonight, as he did every public occasion, he told tales and spun stories and told sweet, sweet pretty lies and all of it, every second and every inch, to hold up the lie that he was a high-born English gentleman and not the skinny Portuguese bastard boy who up until the age of eleven still cried for his mother. _I’m no better than Francis_. The horror of the thought that’d just occurred to him made him stop in his tracks on the pavement. No, that was Sir John talking, not him. Heaving a great sigh, James made himself continue, if only because it was an inclement April and he wanted the liberty to sleep for a great long time and he would not be at liberty to do so until he was under the same roof as hosed his own bed.

Commonly, his thoughts returned to Sir John’s thoughts- what would _he_ have thought, had James ever confessed the truth? Another answerless question, James smirked grimly. Another regret it was too late to rectify. Another thing to ponder in the minutes before he fell asleep. Those minutes were becoming increasingly lonely, igniting the lining of his stomach with writhing, burning worms that some nights had him half-mad with longing, and other nights with list. All desires pinpointed upon the one other living soul alive who knew the truth. Francis. Francis, who probably would be able to answer what Sir John’s thoughts upon the matter would have been. Every night the question remained unasked. Because, James suspected, he already knew the answer.

***

 

His room were a far cry from the estate on which he had been raise alongside his brother and cousins. Then luxury at every turn, now humble and sparsely decorated. Both, it seemed, devoid of Francis. James checked every time twice, and the man was nowhere to be found. An immeasurable amount of time had passed when he found himself sitting on the edge of his own bed, playing with his hands and tugging at his clothes waiting for the door to open. Saturday night, it was, with James Fitzjames alone and miserable at home and Francis Crozier out into the old hours with friends and acquaintances and happy. _Let him stay out_ , there was a bitter tinge to his thoughts he disliked a great deal, _I have no joy for him here_. Eyes darting about for something to do, legs bouncing restlessly- whatever happened to Neptune? Did Blanky take her? Gaze settled on his chest of drawers- Goodsir’s letter has been there four days, it’s about time I wrote back- I should really organise—a portmanteau and his old trunk where open- his drawers were open- his dresser was open- everyone else is happy, James, what’s wrong with you? His pale cream shirt was repurposed as a handkerchief and he sobbed and sobbed. There was no one singular reason for it, which was a fact he could identify even whilst in the eye of the proverbial storm, but he could not find it within him to stop. He did not think he knew how to stop. There was no way to stop. Only when the front door _did_ open could he seize the first available breath and inhale deeply, halt the sobs and hastily scrub at his eyes, realising as he did that his shoulders and neck hurt from staying in the same position for so long.

“James!” the voice came closer as thunder rolling in from over the sea. Frantically, the owner of the name looked at the state of his surroundings, and found no salvation or convenient spot to hide. Clothes were strewn on the bed and in the cases, the shirt was snot-covered and tear-stained, his eyes were red and speech was currently beyond him, he did not fit under the bed, there was no escape. “Oh you bloody- James Fitzjames you are the stupidest man I have ever had the misfortune to meet and I- have you been crying?”

“No.” He sniffed, knowing the turning of his head was a dead giveaway. “No, no, of course not, Francis. What do you want?”

“I want to- Christ in hell, what’s all this man?” By ‘all this’, James had to assume he meant to mess of his room. However before he could come up with an explanation- or, rather, an excuse- Francis’ face went blank. “You are leaving, then?”

“No!” anger drew itself up and bristled in his ribcage then, for a second he stood straighter an made to shout something back, only his fingers brushed across a wet spot on the silk of his shirt and he felt himself deflate. “No- I don’t _know_ , Francis, I don’t know what I’m doing here or with you or anywhere!” there was no change on the other man’s face- perhaps a twitch of eyebrows drawing together, or a discontented blink, but overall his visage remained as stony as ever and if it were not for the utter shamefulness of the act he would have burst into tears anew and thrown himself in the vicinity of his friend; arms, hoping to be held. It had been a long time since he had been held.

At last, he began. “James...” Slowly he moved forward- so slow as to be agonising, one step for every breath James took. “James.”

“Do not accuse me of melodrama!” he tore away from him, suddenly overcome with the desperate urge to be alone again and emerge only in the cold hours of the morning when they could pretend this night did not exist. “Don’t you _dare!_ I may not know what is wrong but I know something is and I won’t be fobbed off and accused of hysteria by the one person who I dare show a side of me that is not perpetually joyful- don’t you dare don’t you dare don’t you dare don’t, don’t-“ he was unsure how long he carried on for, or if his words were audible around his salty mouth, but at some point Francis muttered, “Look, calm down, for goodness-“ and he was seized by the elbow and guided to sit down on the bed. In a clearer state of mind, he would have complained at creasing his clothes or at least how uncomfortable it was to sit atop them and use them for purposes other than the intended, but all that could be produced from his mouths were sobs and garbled and undeserved recriminations directed at the man beside him.

The man who, after short consideration, sat awkwardly besides him on the mattress, at a slight angle so as to face him better as he patted James’ knee and occasionally gave a muttered interjection of ‘there, there’ or ‘calm down’. Compassionate? Not overly so- certainly James could recall better times of comfort, enough for the fingers of his two hands- yet appreciated and effective, it appeared as sooner than he thought he had dried down and sat quietly, with the occasional sniff or swallow, worrying the ruined cloth between his hands. The clock struck one and it occurred to him that Francis had more like as not cut his own evening short to return for the confrontation the two of them had had. Guilt arose, tears not far behind, “I’m sorry.”

Confusion, then, “What for?”

“For...” he coughed, or something that resembled a laugh. “I don’t know either, but...” awkwardness but into their conversations and words halted again. Neither of them were very good at this it appeared.

“Look,” Francis renewed, face a mix of concern and determination and desire to solve a tricky problem. The same face that got them- that got _James_ through the hellish landscape of the Arctic, led him to confess his decades-kept secrets in the dead of _Erebus’_ great cabin with no one else around to hear them. “Just tell me what is wrong James, so I can set it to rights, will you?”

James laughed. It came out snotty and sniffly and wet. “I would love to, Francis; except I’m afraid I’ve little more knowledge than you on the matter.”

“Tell me anyway,” beseeching, concerned- oh, he did not deserve this man, he was sure of it. “I told you we were brothers and I meant it. Let me help you.”

What has Thomas Blanky once declared, on an evening all of them were thoroughly in their cups? _Bollocks to it_.

“Lately I have been- I – I – Good God, Francis, I have no idea where to start.” Turning away, James felt warmth begin to leech up his side: Francis had moved closer and taken- Good Lord he is holding my hand. He likes my figure and he is holding my hand. Wiping the back of his free hand under his streaming nose, he continued, “This past week or- couple of weeks, I haven’t been... well I haven’t been sleeping very well, which is probably why I’m-“ he waved at his genera upper body, head and hair- “so thrice damned emotional. I’ve just been- there was that rumour, from Barrow, obviously, and- and the admiralty may well decide we’ve recuperated enough to send us out to s- sea again. It’s- I may very well even take them up on their offer, if they have one, depending on what it is, but- oh! I’m just _worried_ \- you know me, I worry ceaselessly over anything of little importance. I worry over that, and what will happen if- if- if I don’t want to go the sea again. And what Sir John would say and what we’ll do for money if we don’t sail again and I worry over... I just worry. There’s no great fanfare or revelation in any of it, I’m just being foolish.”

“You’re not.” The answer was immediate, curt even, voice imbued with an emotion James could not find a name for, but certain Francis was trying to make his words full of it nonetheless. “It’s- you’re not, James, you’re not. And... I understand, bits of it, about- about sleeping and not sleeping. Thinking and not thinking, or... not wanting to think. Even- even Sir John and about being sad with no reasoning, it is...” words failed and so he squeezed James’ hand instead. It burned like a brand. James exhaled.

“Is there- is there an answer?”

There was a mirthless chuckle, “The answer is not whiskey, I can at least tell you that.”

Oh- _oh- of course_ \- the man sitting beside him would understand- of course- of course- and- did he really have a right to be kicking up such a fuss over these feelings of his, when every other man in the world must experience the same things as he on a day to day basis?

“But,” Francis carried on. “I can tell you that it gets- not _better_ , though it does. But, um, it does get- it- you get- it gets a little less alone. The snow begins to melt again, if that makes sense. You- you start to understand there is life after the sadness, and life even when you are sad, that life isn’t- is still worth living even when you are sad. It’s- James-“a rough hand calloused from years of toil gripped his chin and made him look up into sea-blue eyes. James breathed in shakily. “There is not a soul on this earth that doesn’t die alone, James. That is no reason to live your life alone as well, do you, do you understand?”

“Yes,” James murmured hoarsely, skin warm wherever Francis touched him. “Yes I understand. I’m not alone... and neither are you.”

The hand at last dropped away, its owner releasing him on all fronts and standing, knees cracking and yet the loneliness he expected to surge and pounce the moment contact ceased did not come. In its place he was strangely calm- James, he was just James and that was currently enough. He interrupted Francis; mutterings about going to bed and seeing each other in the morning to clasp the tips of his fingers. “Thank you, Francis. _Thank you_.”

It brought forth another of those awkward shuffles the man did whenever he was exposed down to the quick and could not even muster an insult with which to respond. James spared him just this once, “You are right, again. It is well past both our bedtimes and I shall not keep you any longer; go to bed and have pleasant dreams- I’ll try not to wake you when I rise early tomorrow to iron my clothes from dawn to dusk.”

Francis gave a disparaging snort, glancing around the mess still preventing the epicentre from sleeping, “Just ask me nicely in the morning for help, then we can both wake up at a reasonable time, you idiot.” The door snapped shut. James smiled.

 

***

 

If James gets one more buggering clever idea in his head... Francis fumes silently to the ceiling. “Lavender pouches, Francis! They go under your pillow to help you sleep, Francis!” he imitates in a high-pitched sneer that sounds nothing at all like the man’s real beguiling timber that could charm the birds down from the sky. “They give me a fucking crooked neck, James, you damn bastard!” Then, quieter, lower, a secret to the trees, he adds, “I wish I could buy you flowers.” Court Martial and death as punishment for sodomy for men of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and they do not mention anything of the sort, they are good officers and Englishmen and, what’s more, there is no way James would like him back. Captain Crozier does not chase ghosts.

 _Chase me then!_ Ethereal voices making one tease; he is ripped from his bed and he is running- running- so fast the world ceases to make sense around him- runs until his chest hurts and he is spat out into the drawing room with a faint ‘pop’. Hardly reacquainted with his bearings, the door opens and James enters laden with bag and coats and wind-swept- he has been away, Francis knows, away on a long journey but he has come back to me now. He has named mountains after the ship’s cat. “Francis!” James smiles and opens his arms. Embracing him is not a courtesy, but an instinct.

He is warm and soft and smells of James and they stay together like that a long while until James pulls away with mutters of ‘let me see, let me see you!’ and Francis obeys and leans back onto the knife in his friend’s hand and cannot stop as it pushes deeper- deeper- through. The blade is ice cold. He looks up into James’ eyes. James smiles, buries the knife up to the hilt.

 

***

 

Waking up, he was again completely soaked though, this time shivering too, the only change now in his own bed. Francis stopped sleeping after that.

 

***

 

1st May 1849

Jopson, I received your letter regarding you and EL. I knew when the two of you endeavoured to go travelling the continent together the exact nature of it, and your last correspondence saying you had in everything but name proposed marriage together confirmed all of my suspicions. I won the bet I had on with Cpt. Fitzjames, seeing as you inquired first- he believed it would take until July, at the earliest. I like to think I know you better than that, Jopson.

I write this letter not because I do not trust you- I do. I knew whomever you chose to give the rest of your life to would be honourable, kind, and love you a great deal and do everything in their power to take care of you. It seems you have managed thus. I wish you all the best. You mentioned, in the letter, that though the pair of you will always lack a proper marriage ceremony, should there ever be a time and a place for one you would hope I did not consider it an offence you pictured me fulfilling the role of ‘the father’ and- for lack of a better phrase- giving you away. I am not offended. I consider it an honour surpassing captaincy, knighthood, or just about any other compliment I have ever been given.

As mentioned above, Jopson, I trust you completely. But do not doubt that should this partnership with EL come to blows, you shall find a safe harbour here and I will gladly murder EL should that ever come to pass. 

Though, for the love of God, do not begin to refer to me as ‘father’ aloud- people shall confuse me with a priest and expect me to be on my best behaviour. Yours- Captain Crozier.

 

***

 

The second day of May 1849 was proving to be a productive say with excellent weather and Francis was in an exceptionally good mood- he had even forgiven James’ affected shock and teasing when he informed him of such over the breakfast table. “A good mood?” demanded he, recovering from his affected swoon at an impressive rate.

“It has been known to happen from time to time.” Luckily, the top edge of the newspaper concealed his grin, “Even to the best of us.”

“Clearly! How, pray tell, do you plan to sustain this good humour of yours?”

Francis stood and folded his paper, “By getting away from you for a start.” Just when he feared for a second he had gone too far this time, the younger man burst into a fit of laughter so merry he fell back in his chair.

“No doubt mine will begin to brighten when the door closes shut behind you! Well- off with you, then I don’t want to see your face again until dinner is ready!”

Even entering the Royal Observatory, Francis could feel himself beginning to crack the barest hints of a smile at the memory of that morning. A smile hastily bitten back and chewed down, of course- it wouldn’t do to give any of the staid bastards haunting the academic halls a heart attack. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

It was an enjoyable morning. Equations, observations and old friends he had nearly forgotten about with little need to remember them out on the ice, coupled with the desire to do anything but think. Now papers and ideas had finally arrived in the post from Van Diemen’s Land courtesy of Lady Jane’s ferocious tenacity and Francis set upon them like a dog to a bone. For the next few hours it was as if nothing existed except the readings in front of him; he fiddled with this machine and that machine, noted down answers and made great, bounding leaps and conclusions. There was no stopping: every idea lead to another, ink flowed seamlessly from the tip of his pen and the stack of pages at his elbow grew and grew, the tottering tower of Jordan. He was forty five again, visiting Van Diemen’s Land with Ross that first time and aiding to build the observatory there- that still stood- that had taken the readings in his hands- smudged from his hands and he pored over them- seventeen again, drunk on whiskey for the first time with great loops and twists and turns of his imagination, mirrored in the languid scrawls of numbers and letters and with every inch the pile of papers grew, so too did his good mood. Only when the sun was resigning in the sky and the last of his colleagues departed with a hearty bid goodbye and a disrupting clang of the study door did Francis sit back in his chair and exhale fully. He felt spent. Exhausted from a job well done, with the evidence of his work laid out tangibly in front of him for the entire world to see should they desire it. James had long since recovered from his stumble two weeks past, but thinking of the future could not hurt- there was no telling how long the admiralty would let them rest on their laurels, no telling when or even if they would ever find a use for them again. Back in 1842 he had had the misfortune of being in the same position, now here he was again repeating history but far from ignorant of the years that had come before and… happy?

 _As good as_ , Francis decided, wincing as his knees cracked when he stood and pulled on his coat, _As good as_.  

 

With something dangerously close to a smile on his face, he strode out of the Observatory and down the great stone stairs and turned up Blackheath Avenue for home. Not two steps later, he realised he was a foot away from being face to face with Sophia Cracroft. The woman looked as startled as he. “Oh!” Then, composed and drawing her shoulders together as every ship’s boy did when the officers came round, to her credit she looked him full in the face, “Captain.”

He did not bother to correct her, “Miss Cracroft.”

Having confirmed the other still inhabited the same body, their gazes left one another’s faces and flicked about awkwardly, looking for something to say, acutely aware there was no etiquette for greeting the person one had rejected or been rejected by twice after believing them dead or gone. To hell with bloody English bloody etiquette. He had been in a good mood two minutes ago and he was trying to be a better person and- could he really blame the woman for rejecting his courtship when he had found himself so unbearable, too?

“I… trust you are… well?”

“Well- yes, yes, I am quite well, Captain, thank you. And yourself?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.”

Something tremulous overcame him, the brute force of which had him rocking back on his feet and fighting the urge to fiddle with his cufflinks- it was not that she was outfitted in the latest spring fashions, whilst he remained in his battered, threadbare uniform coat, or that he was now sober and fully unused to being so around women. Rather… he did not know whether in his head he was to call her ‘Sophia’ or ‘Miss Cracroft’, compounded with the desire that she see he as sober, though- shockingly- he found he did not want to ask her to marry him a third time. And it wasn’t because all of _those_ thoughts were pre-occupied with the most handsome man in the British Navy. On inspection, she looked as uncomfortable as he. A feeling welled up in his chest- pity. _When I warned James he needed to save his pity for what was coming, I did not expect it to mean this_.

For the first time in his life, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier tried to make small talk.

“I, uh- I have heard it said that you are planning to go travelling?”

Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier was woefully inadequate at small talk.

“Whoever told you spoke truthfully- my aunt, Lady Jane, has been harbouring such thoughts for some time and I intend to accompany her.”

“Oh, that will be, um… nice. You will… to get away from the weather here.” The moment the words formed he realised how strongly they resembled a metaphor bitter with the idea _to get away from me_ and had no idea how to rectify the statement. _Christ, Bird Shit Island wasn’t as excruciating as this!_

“I imagine it will be clement at the base of the mountain, but not at the top.” She tilted her head back and her curls fell away as she bequeathed him a small smile, “At the peak there is snow and ice whatever the season- we may soon have more in common than either of us dreamed.”

Every memory he had of the Arctic was a monochrome stain of fear; fear which for a moment had him pinned by the throat and struggling to think of any suitable answer to a thoughtless comment. Perhaps she saw, her head tilted back down do low her chin brushed the neckline of her dress, her eyes looking up at him becoming hooded and dark. Francis could not help the shiver that went through him. “If I have said something I oughtn’t and I have offended you, then I am deeply sorry, Captain.”

“No-“ Francis shook his head and then stopped, feeling his jaw clench and his mouth work and open- why, why did it feel as though he were spitting out cinders- no wait- wait!- too late. He had spoken. He had not meant to. “The time for that has long past- it passed six years ago, the second time I asked. Eight years ago, the first time I asked. Three years ago when your uncle said- when your uncle said-“ there was no telling her what Sir John had said, only that it had hurt and it was the truth. Francis Crozier was a hard to pin down, hard to kill, a hard captain, a difficult man: hard to like and even harder to love. All of this was articulated in a weary headshake and a stare from behind half-shut eyelids because he was too tired to look at her, “Goddamn you, Sophia.”

“God may well do so, but at least I have never damned myself as you have done- not with your words, perhaps, but your actions certainly.” Her face had taken on the visage of a cold, smooth block of steel, knuckles white around the hand of her parasol; posture-wise, she was bending forward at a slight angle from the waist up, exposing every part of her from her hips to the brim of her bonnet that was tilted away from her hair. Overall, it had the effect of making her look to be in an unbridled range and (should she have been a man) in need of a calmer fellow to restrain her lest physical violence ensure very shortly.

“I am sorry I do not love you back, Captain, but I cannot be what I am not. I care for you- deeply. I pray that you find happiness at the end of this whole mess, but it will not be with me. Perhaps I did lead you on a merry dance for some of the way, I certainly apologise if my actions were received differently from how I intended them. But I cannot be your redemption or your happiness and I will not be your wife or your lover.”

She stood back, shining as an untempered star and for one minute Francis tried, looking at her, to dredge up any of the old feelings- the lust, the exhilaration, the giddy delight and soaring highs and crippling lows- there was nothing. He was very tired and it had taken the Arctic to fall out of love with Sophia Cracroft. Which, he was man enough to admit, spoke to the calibre of woman she was.

Telling her so seemed to soften her rage slightly, or at least lowers her shoulders and loosens her fingers; her facial expression, by contrast, remained as blank and smooth as black marble. “Fine. I’m sorry, too. Sorry I sked you. I should have- once should have been enough. I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry.”

Once a smile on her face would have been like the sun coming out. Now, it was just a smile: they were just the Captain and Miss Cracroft. Naturally, there was no talk of forgiveness, just a quiet demand to accompany her on a walk around Greenwich Park as it seemed the acquaintance she had intended to meet at the observatory and continue on to dinner with would not be forthcoming.

“Who was it?”

She gave a name- a gentleman who had emerged in Francis’ absence and who he could put a face to, but had never conversed with. “Don’t think he was here today.”

“Luckily for me, then, that you were, else I’d have had to risk a stroll alone this evening.” Sophia’s jaunty smile had not changed. Momentarily, he tried to kid himself that this was 1841 and nothing had changed, only it failed and there was no need- he wanted this to be 1849, where he had survived and would be going on home to dine with James shortly. She took his smile as one in return to her own and took his arm, but he found he did not mind- when she had not been his fantasy she had been a good friend.

With his only view of her the top of her head, blonde hair and blue bonnet and cobblestones changing for grass under their shoes, she began to speak, “I’m sorry, Francis, but I must ask.”

“Don’t, we’ve both been apologetic enough for one day.”

Laughter tinkled up through the branches of the trees, “Perhaps. It is not a feeling I can claim familiarity with, at any rate. However, Francis, it seemed today- or at least before our encounter- that you were in a fine mood. Have you found yourself another woman?”

The inhale he took was cold and stripped his mouth of all moisture- bluntness, after admiralty, dinners, and years on a ship with no privacy but to lock the door on a cabin the same size as a coffin, was a breath of fresh air. “Not a woman.”

“Ah. You and I are of the same inclination, then.”

Devoid of whiskey and thoroughly dried out, it was a suspicion long in the making, but people of their sort required exact confirmation all the same: “Do you mean to say that you, too, like men as I do, or that you do not care to differentiate between sexes, as I do?”

Smiling, she replied, “Both.”

Francis laughed, linked their arms tighter and carried on walking up the blossom-strewn path. “Yes, there is someone else.”

“And… you are happy?”

Ignoring the hesitation in her voice was, he would think as he was reflecting on the incident a long time afterwards, either the worst or best thing he had ever done. “Yes.”

Clothes and crepe ruffled and brushed against his collar as she turned to him, eyes wide with surprise and dancing with questions, “Have you..?”

‘How far?’ went unspoken, but the question was there all the same and he answered it. “No. The desires are the same as our… relations, but it has come to even less fruition.” Sadness accompanied the realisation- as ever, it was blue with cold. “I do not think he is inclined our way, though if he is I am certain there will still be nothing coming of it between us. But he does make me happy.” Whiskey, the fierce burn of whiskey to warm him, warm hands in every place- every comfort was denied to him now.

It did not help that Sophia’s eyes were swimming when she garnered the courage to look over her shoulder at him once again, “I apologise again for what I am about to say, yet say it I must so at least I know you have been told: you have not got a favourable track record with the things that make you happy.”

Francis thought to breathe around the ice berg lodged in his gut. The words were leaden, but bigger than a bullet, striking with the appropriate force the increase of mass required. In mercy, Sophia turned her head away until he had recovered himself.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded eventually. “First whiskey and now another suitor. There is no need to apologise- you’ve been of a more honest disposition than most I have met, and braver than many of my friends, to be so frank.” At some point as he had been speaking, their steps had faltered and they had stopped. Tiny pink leaves were underfoot and the rest of the greenery devoid of anyone else, it was spring in England.

She had looked him dead in the eyes earlier; it was only fair he do the same. “I have asked a lot of you over our acquaintance, Sophia. I’ve apologised for it, now I ask for something I hope you _can_ give me.” A chill had entered her eyes again; _does she think I believe it will be third time lucky?_ “I have found someone new, however they’ll have me, and they are my hope and my happiness- as you say. Assume- no, _believe_ me, please, when I say I do not want to ruin this the way I have near everything else. How do you recommend I change that? How… how does one man become a better person? How does one man bring about a sea change? Or- or stops one of the most important people in his life from downing in a well?”

Her eyes were warm; smouldering pools warm like a pond sitting under the heat of Van Diemen’s Land and kind, too kind- kind because she had no answer to give him. “You just try,” Sophia spoke at last, turning away and breaking eye contact, starting to walk again and taking his arm. “You just try, Francis. Try your best, if the love is worth it.”

“What becomes of a man when his best is not good enough?”

“The man then needs to try and learn that it is not a reflection of if _he_ is good enough.”

Opening his mouth, Francis had the notion to refute her claim and the words in his mind to do so, but the words would not form. Tired of looking like a goldfish, he bit the inside of his cheek and did not speak anymore.

Sophia filled in the gaps for him. “Whilst we are on such difficult topics I shall bring up another if you don’t mind- we may as well get everything over and one with in one swift blow. Think of Marie Antoinette and the guillotine, if that helps. Aunt Jane has invited you to dinner at least thrice that I know of, yet you have turned down every one- was that because of me?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. it’s…” how did he explain that he would hate dining with the woman who had been one of his closest confidantes for his frozen heart now that he was rescued and hated the dead husband she glorified? That listening to her extolling the virtues of the late rear admiral would make Francis hate the man's memory? “Not everything is about you, Miss Cracroft.”

He hated himself for saying it, yet every time he looked at any surviving member of the Franklin bloodline he remembered the feelings of hurt and sorrow and inadequacy- his own fault, Francis was not incapable of admitting- that in years past he had turned to whiskey to get th taste from his mouth. Oh, the vice was no one’s fault but his own and worse men than he had endured the same horrors without alcohol to see him through- Sir John, for one. But… he did not miss either woman with any marked fervour and he certainly did not want to be falling back on his old habits under the roof of Sir John who had had none. James had consoled him upon the matter more than once. ‘It doesn’t have to be anyone’s fault, Francis, but you have to be the solution. If a place will drive you to drink then you must avoid it as much as you possibly can.’ Francis had cursed his weaknesses then and he did so again now, internal recriminations that were simply another note on a list- his own weaknesses had been the cause of too much hurt in the world and he wanted to apologise to everyone he had ever hurt.

It was a very long list.

“I’m sorry, Sophia, that was not called for.”

She squeezed his arm where their elbows crooked together, not looking at him, though that avoidance made the whole thing easier for them both. “It’s quite alright to have changed, Francis. I know I have. Just… do not be a stranger at least, hmm? If I write to you from far away Yemen, will you write back?”

“Aye, though I do believe that by the time my return correspondence arrives in Yemen you will have moved on to your next adventure.”

Sophia gave a brief laugh. They had circled the park boundary twice and where now rounding the corner path past gaggling ducks far from their stream. “I would be traipsing all over the globe as you once did, with you stuck here under London’s perpetual rain cloud- you would write back, truly?”

Francis shrugged, “I will always write to a friend far from home.”


	2. Chapter 2

“There is no _point_ , Francis, you damnable man!”

“And I tell you there _is_ , James, you English oaf!”

As far as stand offs were wont to go, this was one of those least impressive: two dishevelled officers stood on either side of the kitchen table, nightshirts flapping about their knees. James could not hold back a shiver that was little to do with the draught: an insidious undercurrent separated the two of them- a table, only a table, but it wasn’t and he felt more stung by his friend’s insult than he normally would. He was searching in the dark of a forest; scrabbling in pitch blackness to find purchase upon the usual fond exasperation that was meant to coat every snappish comment they had ever thrown at each other and he could not find any suitable place to grip with his fingers that did not look in danger of crumbling.

_My dream_ James thought, his dream was crumbling in his fingers and he did not know why. “Pray explain then, _why_ you want to view a ship without me?”

“Not everything is about you, James! Christ almighty, am I worth so little in your eyes that you can imagine no possible chance the Admiralty would want me without you?”

The man had the gall to look hurt! Hurt, when James had only been trying to give him a viable excuse to avoid the social occasion he no doubt wished to avoid anyway. “I can imagine no possible scenario in which you would happily enjoy yourself!”

“You have little scope of imagination then!”

“You have little chance of further promotion, even dancing on the navy’s strings!” It was a step too far, a line crossed and both of them ignored it, to their cost.

“You have a chance only because you defraud every bastard holding those strings!”

Chests heaving they both fell back, one against the cupboards and the other the wall. Thankfully they were currently sole residents of the building on any floor, and no neighbours would be complaining about the noise. James could not think of any answer, or of anything at all to say.

Francis looked at him- eyes too stormy to read- then swore suddenly and leaned back upon the table again, “You fucking English oaf.” He stopped and shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean that.” Glancing up through his fingers he must have caught sight of the hurt on James’ face as he disappeared and closed the flesh curtains, flush creeping up his neck. “No, no- wait, James, I didn’t mean _that_.”

What did the man intend to say on the topic they had not discussed since it had been confessed? He was unsure if he wanted to know the answer. “What did you mean then?” anger grated the words harder than he intended them and the man flinched visibly but James did not have it within himself to care- he was a bastard and he was a fraud and tired of every word reminding him of the fact. Yes, he may have gotten the opportunities from patronage but he had proven himself true with his own actions every time, proven his blood as good as anyone else’s, had he not? A man did not bleed unless it as worth something, surely? He was tired of Francis Crozier, the most exasperation and possibly rudest man in the bloody navy.

“Only- I only meant- Christ above, James, does it matter what I meant?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Because-“ _because I could not bear for you of all people to have a low opinion of me_. “Because I want to know exactly what you think and exactly what you meant!”

“I think the navy ought to be glad to have you, Portuguese bastard or English nobleman!”

He blinked. “Oh. That’s alright then.”

Francis looked completely bewildered. “What? James- I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, forcing himself to do so lightly despite the weight he could feel there- he was no Atlas. “You think I do not believe the same of you, you Irish Mick?”

“Oh. Well. Yes, that’s alright then.”

“Good. And- the ship viewing?”

“Hang the bloody ship!” growled Francis. “Come away from the knives, will you?”

“An awful lot of rope would be required- what is wrong with the knives?” He turned his head to look, catching a peripheral flicker that may have been a flinch or may simply have been the man stepping forward.

“Wrong- nothing. Just- get out of the way and I’ll make us some tea. Go put some bloody clothes on.”

“I’m not feeling the chill.”

“Nor am I, but for decency’s sake!”

James began to smirk, then took full stock of the image before him: Francis, half naked, shooing him gently away and bustling about in the cup boards fussing over the tea. At the same time, he became acutely aware of the failings of a nightshirt in hiding anything of significance below the waist- “Yes, I, I will be back shortly.” And he hurried off and was not back shortly.

 

Inadmissible relief was evident in the sigh Francis exhaled as the man’s back retreated out of the kitchen and away from objects easily turned to implements of murder- Hickey, and his eyes, and his knife, at Tozer’s throat, James’ throat- the thought was wretched, and he felt ashamed of it, but the pot was coming to a boil inside of his mind and every thought of James was invariably tainted. Leaving the kettle to boil, he fled to his own room and fished amidst his two utilised drawers (Sophia came to mind with a pang that was nothing at all love and entirely all regret) for more attire. His sartorial options were far more limited than James’- he wished it were to be blamed on the fact _Erebus_ and the latter’s wardrobe made it home intact and his did not, except the fact of the matter was that he had no interest in clothes and before sailing had scarce worn anything not his uniform. The dress blues were out- if t’weren’t for all the times Jopson had painstakingly laundered them they’d have found a place in the fire long ago- as was his actual uniform, by now threadbare and in need of a wash. He had been wearing it all week, anyhow. Which left the all-identical civilian outfits: waistcoats and shirts and trousers, capped with his scuffed boots. Mostly black clothing- a flash of colour caught his eye in dark red that he had last worn in the Franklin house when- no, that was no good. Which left him with little but black and blue. Sighing his umpteenth sigh of that morning, (how they had ended up in the kitchen half-dressed and arguing over a ship was a mystery) Francis hastily pulled on his least threadbare clothes and, after a moment’s consideration, his heavy ship’s jacket on top of the whole ensemble and smoothed his hair back in the mirror. Smoothed his hair back again, then frowned and took up a comb, then chucked the offending item down as the kettle began to whistle that it was ready and left to take it off the boil with his hair, he was sure, looking like a damned dying hedgehog.

Muttered curses fled his mouth before he took the kettle from the boil and halted once there was no piercing screech to hide under. Goddamnit, he was a captain- no, _commodore_!- of the royal navy, not some fanciful woman trying to impress her first suitor!

 

***

 

“So the ship viewing is scratched- Bridgens has invited us both to dine with him and Mr Peglar on the thirtieth of May before they go back down south with the theatre company, and I for one am going regardless of your opinion on the matter.”

“If you intend to do as you please regardless of my opinion, then why ask for it?”

The smirk he shot across at him was nothing short of devilish, “Etiquette, my dear Francis! Harry is lecturing down in Greenwich next month, so we shall be attending at least one of those events, too.”

“Might I point out that they are designed for people ignorant of what we have already experienced?”

“You may not!” Another grin.The smile of a bastard.

Francis felt himself growing hot under the collar and sought to hide the fact. “Do as you will,” he replied shortly, eyes glued on his tea cup. “So long as you do not inform them of my confirmed attendance as well, I shall protest no more on the matter.”

“What-!” his eyes were wide enough they may have dropped out his head- Hickey, on a boat beaming as others dropped scurvy-ridden all round, centre of the flower as petals dropped one by one, clawing frozen eyes from a frozen face and the air thick with silence and carrion- a smash and then his fingers were scalding, he flinched too late and felt a burning patch on his knee, James’ voice cried out high, “Francis!” and in a flurry scrambled over to grasp his hands and simultaneously bend down to retrieve the pieces of the smashed teacup.

Francis flinched. “Geroff me,” he muttered lowly, struggling out of the friendly grip and deftly avoiding any further contact by sinking to his knees on the pretence of picking up the bone white shards himself. Could a knife pierce though a man even if he was wearing a coat?

 

***

 

_HMS Megaera_ deserved a better appraisal than what either Francis or James was in any state to give that one cold, drizzling London morning. After rather too much silence, James clucked his tongue and without looking away from the rather artfully arranged pile of wood and metal all ships ultimately were, asked; “What do you think of it, then?”

“It is… big.”

He laughed, though he could tell Francis hadn’t intended it as a joke. It was the first time he had laughed in three days, “Rather big.”

Silence clawed its way back and James bit the inside of his cheek hard until he drew blood- sometimes tasting the scurvy was the only way he could appreciate the miracle of their lives now. He was here in London with Francis and he was not happy. God above.

Awkwardness was vanquished by the unwelcome rabble announcing the rest of the party. Francis turned to him, looking weary and shadowed. “No, no, James, I’m sorry but I’m not doing this. I thought- I shall see you at home.” and was gone before James could say another word. He did attempt it, once his brain had caught up- and in doing so made two steps in the direction his friend had gone before seeing the distance he’d already put between them and giving it up for a lost cause. Turning back to the approaching swarm, he tried to invent a story to explain absence and answer all questions.

 

***

 

For all the times he had tried to imagine that going straight home to bed would bring unadulterated relief, Francis was sure this particular time was the atonement. He went straight home and to bed, but it brought no relief. Only half-formed thoughts he couldn’t distinguish from dreams and the taste of whiskey from the taste of longing. Abandoning James to the sociable expectations had been cruel- having survived the Arctic with no one left behind but unfortunate limbs one would have thought a social gathering to be the easiest thing in the world.

For all the times he had tried to be a better person, Francis still could not change completely. There was no exact malady plaguing him, but for the past two weeks the tide of his heart had been eroding more and more of his sea defences and he was tired, muddled, unhappy and sore in his bones. Smiles would come, and happiness would follow before ultimately leaving again. Fleeting or fleeing him, Francis could not tell.

He gave sleep up for a loss and stumbled to the drawing room, having the idea to go and hide at Ross’ in Blackheath until the worst of his melancholy had blown over- forsake one James for another who had long experience and no mind for his ill humours, but trying to write was pointless and upon reflecting on the smudged words he realised with icy dread they read as some sort of forewarning of suicide. “God,” he reeled round and went back to bed, staggering as he had many times under the influence of whiskey yet now sadly stone cold sober. He threw himself upon the bed without removing his shoes or taking much notice of the fierce impact as his temple connected with the wall, and dived down into oblivion if not sleep.

 

***

 

James Fitzjames could reasonably say that he had never been so gripped by anger in all of his life. How dare Francis leave him to make his excuses without so much as a by-your-leave, when the whole idea to attend had been his insistence in the first place? No! He was not having it, and he was going to bloody well tell the man as much! He was not having it and any other person would no doubt have had it out with him months ago when the strange behaviour first started, but James’ had always given too much leeway with Francis.

No longer... “Francis!” he yelled, glad for their lack of neighbours as he not only shouted but stomped into every room- no one in the kitchen, so he let the door swing back and slam as he moved on to the drawing room. “Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, I have never met such a fuc-“ seizing the crumpled, smudged letter on the table in the corner out of curiosity as it had not been there on their departure, his next words seized up in his mouth. The next time he shouted, “Francis!” it was more a desperate plea than a rebuke and then “ _Francis_!” and his voice was high with fear.

_James... I have been boring, terrible, and bored. Difficult to love, no doubt even harder to befriend. But then you always were stubborn. Whatever mistakes or lies or anything you think you must atone for are a load of bollocks, but should there ever come a day when the most handsome man in the British Navy cocks up good and proper then have the confidence to believe you may start again. Do it all over and change completely and irrevocably. It is never too late, a hope of which I am living proof of- and you are a far better man than me. I very much doubt any time which you may have trusted me, or if I indeed have your trust at all but please trust me once completely now when I tell you this:__________ and I did to the ends of the earth. I will until the stars go out. Sincerely yours and forever sorry, Francis (Crozier)._

“Were you planning to leave?” it had not been the question he intended to ask, or the demand he’d had in mind, and the only excuse he could come up with was that the fear he felt and the relief at finding Francis sitting up in bed, dishevelled and askew but present, sent him temporarily mad with emotion.

A dead look greeted him, “No.”

“Like hell you weren’t!”

His face twisted until, finally showing some emotion, he bristled, “I do not need to explain myself to _you_ of all people, James!”

“You do- not just as a fellow lodger, but as your friend and the only person fool enough to put up with you this long!”

“In comparison to the long queues of people willing to live with you instead!”

“This is not about me; this is about you- you and leaving me to view the ship by myself after being the one to drag us there in the first bloody place. You and the horrid, foul mood you have insisted on wearing for weeks now!”

“If I am in a bad temper I assure you that its cause is entirely your fault!”

“ _My_ fault! My fault you left me at the ship, when you wanted to go!”

“This isn’t about the bloody fucking ship!” Hardly an inch separated their noses now, both shouting until they were hoarse and throats nearly bloody.

“Indeed it isn’t. I shall tell you what it is about- you! You and your insistence on being a downright miserable bastard when the world has repaid every debt it may have owed you!”

“You are beginning to sound like Sir John.” His voice had dropped.

“You have long sounded like a pathetic Irishman with a chip on his shoulder!”

“Better that than a Portuguese bastard loved neither by his own parents or by the man you tried to take as a father figure!”

James could not answer, could not move, tried to breathe and found he could not do that nor blink either. Hurt ad paralysed him and he did not think he would ever move again.

“Oh God.” complete devastation was plain on Francis’ face in the brief seconds before he buried his head in his hands and dropped back with a thump as the back of his head collided with the wall. “Oh, God, James I’m sorry. I didn't mean a word of it, I swear to you. I just- I’ve got a bloody fucking headache.”

Sat perpendicular atop the bed, back slumped to the wall and legs askew in front of him with stockinged feet not even touching the floor brought to mind the image of a child. James felt overwhelmingly sorry for him and suddenly found he could move again. Kneeling beside him, up close he found he could easily identify the pale skin and harsh purple bruises under his eyes, the tired shoulders and the slight tremor to his fingers. “Then why not just _say_ , you idiot. I would not have come inhere shouting loud enough to raise the dead- nay; I would not have felt the need to shout at all.” He paid no heed to the aborted flinch that came when he grasped hold of the man’s shoulder, putting it down to pain and embarrassment and simply readjusting his grip and watching, bemused, as his other hand of its own volition took hold of the fingers still covering his face and hooked deftly around them in much the same way he had seen men and women do at dinner parties where affection would be vulgar yet much needed all the same. “Has it been like this all day?”

A nod.

James heard himself coo and cluck softly, sliding off the edge of the mattress to give adequate space as he pulled Francis down by the shoulder to lie down properly. The man brought his legs up onto the bed automatically, then pulled them towards his chest and James only felt his sympathy deepen, for sure the pain must be great if the man looked so small; so deep cracks began to form when he brushed his knuckles over the man’s shoulder bladeand he shuddered and moaned a sound half inhuman with its despair. “Lie down for a while,” he begged, suddenly overcome with desperation to set his world to rights again. _Barrow always said I was too forgiving_. “It may help- is there anything I can get for you?”

“No,” Francis shook his head once then emerged, blinking clouds away from his eyes. “No, it’s fine, thank you, but- _James_...” a hand caught his sleeve. “’S no excuse for what I said- or what I did- I should never have- even when I was a drunkard I would ne’er have dreamt to- please forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven.” And was surprised to find he meant it. He gave a one-shouldered, careless shrug. “You were simply speaking the truth, anyhow. No matter how much it hurts, I would rather have that than anything else.”

Convinced, it seemed, of the given atonement, Francis relaxed into the mattress and went limp. “Yes,” he murmured hoarsely, just within James’ range of hearing. “Yes. The truth, and- would that it be from each other, if from anyone.”

“Exactly. Now sleep, my friend, I shall check up on you in a short while.”

There was no answer but as James shut the door as quiet as the rusty old thing allowed, he found that he did not mind just this once.

 

***

 

Sheer will power kept Francis from bursting into tears the second he was alone, and as it was shame, embarrassment and guilt struggled for dominance as to who pushed its way up his throat first. With everything he had said he deserved no less than for James to strike his as he had sixteen months ago, as many blows as there had been cross words, but he was the most forgiving man in the British Navy and Francis the most thoughtless. Twas not enough, apparently, that he already vacated the kitchen every times James was using the knives or had to keep himself from pulling away anytime he had his back to him so as to ensure what the other man’s hands were doing, but that he also wanted those same, slender hand, delicate hands in his own trousers and he threw horrid insults and accusations at the man who struggled enough with his own soul as it was. Tears sprang to his eyes but he swallowed them back down. They tasted like the sea and he berated himself the pleasure after making everyone so miserable. After lying outright to James.

Not lying- he had the mother of all headaches now, but Francis took it as an inadequate punishment for his actions of the last ten minutes. _God, I’m a bastard_. How was he ever going to make it up to James? From experience he knew that there was no bleach or soap to scour the memories of people’s hardest and harshest words and erase them from a man’s mind. No antidote to the poison that had been administered, that a man’s brain would continue to administer in prescribed drops every night before falling asleep from now until the end of his days.

A bed, the cold, the tents, Bridgens, bloodshot eyes and screams he had no air for. Poison in the jar, his hand, James’ mouth, forcing the poison down his friend’s throat.

Alone, tearful, feeling empty and tremendously sorry, Francis fell asleep.

 

***

 

When he opened his eyes Francis knew that it was not morning; his head was heavy and his eyes were stinging. Emptiness had nestled beside him, in a small warm beast curling up comfortably by his ribcage and every noise that tinkled and chimed through from down the hall set his teeth on edge. _On with it then_. Rising from his bed was more like staggering; walking down the hall to the kitchen proved he was far from steady on his feet and completely sober and half in love with the source of the noise, who startled like a yowling cat when Francis came through the door.

“By Christ, man!” he gasped, going limp against the edge of the sink “You about scared the life out of me!”

Francis shuffled his feet, wondering if it was best to simply go back to bed, “Apologies.”

Every apology was waved away with his hand- fluttering through the air, a flock of white birds, pigeons, and he bustled over and unnecessarily guided him to a chair at the kitchen table. Brief though the silence was, Francis could no longer stand it. “James-“

“Your timing was on point, I must say- I was just about to come and see if you wanted anything to eat. There’s toast if you think you can manage it- and the kettle has just boiled.”

Dear God, the man was a veritable angel: kind, and undeserved. He swallowed his reservations and bade himself speak. “That’s- James. About earlier...”

He waved his hand again, “I’ve forgotten it.”

“You haven’t. I’m- I’m sorry.” Two words of apologetic timbre were no recompose for everything that he had said.

“It’s _fine_ , Francis. Let’s just forget either of us said anything. Although... I’ll keep the letter I found, if you don’t mind.”

_Letter_? “The letter- what did I put in the letter- James, if I said anything with regards to-“

“Oh, no, it’s not so much a matter of its contents. I just don’t want it lying about your correspondence and giving you ideas!”

Clarity hit Francis with the force of a wrecking ball, _he thinks you are going to leave him, you fool_. For a man whose harshest critique was that he was unloved, that was probably the thing that had sliced him deepest. Mere memory of it sliced Francis right down to the bone. “James.” The words did not come out gentle but brusque, cold and unforgiving. Too much like him. He tried his utmost to soften the blow by meeting his friend’s eyes as best he could. “James that business of leaving was- unwarranted. Or- well, I admit I was thinking of leaving,but it had little to do with you and everything to do with me. There was no- no slight on your part, or comment or flaw of yours that motivated me, merely a bad temper and a bad day and- I- I have no plans to leave, at any rate, so there is no cause for you to worry.”

Relief shone from blues eyes clear as a sunny day; Francis’ exhale stuttered in time with his heart. “None at all?”

“Well, the next time you force me to the opera to listen to that rubbish you call music, I am sure my feelings will change on the matter but until then: none whatsoever.” The joke did not land with its intended effect and he scrambled to rectify it. “A joke, James, that was just a jest. I like- well, I don’t like going to your idea of opera, but I enjoyed your company at least, it made the torture seem slightly less prolonged. Burn the letter, honestly, I wasn’t... I wasn’t in my right mind. My plan was to go and stay with Ross, for god’s sakes, the idea of sitting on the doorstep for two months before he returned from the south of Spain seemed perfectly feasible to me. I wasn’t thinking, I was fucked.”

Vulgar though the word was, it startled James out of his stupor and he puzzled over the impromptu speech as he set two plates of glistening buttered toast on the table- one in front of Francis, who decided he’d at least pick at it to try and be kind- and then fetched the too-steeped tea from the side and set them down next to the plates without saucers. “If it’s all the same to you, Francis, I will still keep the letter. There was- you said some rather uncommon things about me in it, things which I have not had the pleasure of being told before and...”

Oh. _Oh_. “Of course you may keep it. “ Francis leaned forward, though only by half an inch to avoid dipping his sleeve in the butter. “Hell, if you need me to, I shall read it aloud to you every morning.”

James’ eyes twinkled and he sat up straighter and smiled. “Thank you, the sentiment is appreciated but the regaling won’t be necessary. You’ve no talent for speeches, anyway, my friend. No, no, the letter I enough. I merely-“ he hesitated “-if I ask you this, Francis, can you promise you will not look down upon me as a man?”

“Of course. What is it?” How many secrets did this man have that were yet to see the light of day? What else could he possibly confess that he had not already given over to him in the dim hold of _Enterprise_ in the midst of the North Sea?

“Nothing majorly important... just that, I feared your attitude and the letter had their cause rooted in... certain discoveries you may have made about me in the past few weeks. About me and my... nature.”

The look on his face must be one of complete bewilderment. “What discoveries? What nature? As in...birds?”

A blush had overtaken his face and now he found great interest in his toast. “Of a sort... Or a lack.In...the birds and the bees, and- oh, for God’s sake, Francis, I visited a whore and not a female one!”

Some momentswere necessary for the revelation to sink in then, extraordinary as they were, Francis found himself bursting out laughing. “Is that all? By Christ, James, there is no need for panic- we are of the same inclination.”

“We are? But- you and Miss Cracroft?”

So wide was his smile he feared he may split his lip; his cheeks hurt from it. “Both men and women hold possibilities for me. And you...?”

“Strictly men,” he blushed, reddening and endearing himself further. “It is surprising with the chances doubled that no one has sought to make an honest man of you. The navy seems to attract men of our... inclinations from all over.”

His answering shrug was careless with practise, “Some would say that I am such an unattractive prospect it was natural instinct trying to give me the greatest chance. “ A laugh, “They may be right- all opportunities and seas are open to me and I’ve found no one for love... merely friends.”

“Not even... Ross? I always wondered about you two.”

If possible, his laugh was even merrier than before “Ross? God above, no. He is just a friend. A dear, close friend, yes, who knows all of my mind and inclinations, but he has never partaken in _that_ one.”

“Ah. A friend, I see. Friends, just like we are?”

Happiness slipped from his heart like a brick into water. To make matters worse, the implications of his previous words chose to sink in at that same moment. A whore. _He went to a whore, not me_. “Just as we are,” he hoped the agreement did not ring as hollow as the church bells had sounded to his ears the day Ross and Ann married. Suddenly desperate to fix his mask, he looked away and had no place to rest his eyes but at the toast put before him akin a peace offering some inestimable time ago. It had gone cold and the sight turned his stomach.

“James,” he spoke up at last, having considered the cooling tea and finding himself apathetic to that as well. “James, I’m very sorry for all the effort you’ve put in, but I don’t think I can eat this.” He looked up and Francis looked down. “I still feel- I think I’m better off just going back to bed.” That, at least, was not a direct lie. _As good as_ , Francis decided. _As good as_.

“It’s quite alright,” James’ voice was soft and low and kind- pitched, he realised, deliberately so for the benefit of his ostensible headache. “You still don’t look very well.” A disembodied hand entered the picture and gingerly took away his plate and teacup. “Go to bed, Francis. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

“And... all is forgiven?”

He looked up just long enough to see the flash of a smile. “I gave as good as I got.”

Francis dropped his head back down, nodded once, twice, struggled up from the chair and in one jerky, inescapable movement clasped the man in an embrace. He let out a small exclamation of ‘oof’, as was the wont of anyone suddenly pressed upon and bearing the weight of another, and then he hugged _back_. There was nothing in it, Francis told himself. No romance or tender feelings, no anger or murderous desire- they were simply two friends sharing secrets at the end of a very long day.

Withdrawing, he was glad of the difference in height between them because even this distance from his mouth, it was a powerful struggle not to just lean over and kiss him there and then. Resisting drained him of whatever reserves of energy were left to him and he retired back to his room without looking up. What James thought of the hug he did not know, but he was too tired to care. Entering the room, at once he stripped off his clothes and left them in a pile by the door and tried to comfort himself with an excuse that they would double as a draught excluder. On the nightstand was a headache powder he had missed earlier; mixed up and a note propped alongside it in James’ swirling script.

_Francis, if you wake and find you cannot join me worry not. It is perfectly understandable for men of a certain age! I hope this’ll provide you respite enough that next time I see you, you will be berating me for implying you are old and infirm. James_.

There was no mention of the evening, the insults, the letter, any of it. No mention of- he recalled now: he had left the letter partially blank, because even when he was thinking clearly the ability to articulate his feelings beyond ‘I love you’ was woefully beyond him. James deserved better than that, deserved better- love was not worthy of James Fitzjames, in his opinion, not that anyone seemed to give a damn what he thought. For a moment Francis could not even find the strength to move his legs; a night stood upright until eventually falling to the floor to sleep stretched out before him as if his feet were frozen in ice to keep him in place. For a moment he did not want to go to bed, for fear sleep would not rise to meet him- there was nothing worse, he had discovered long ago as a drunkard, than being left alone with your mind all night long.

Francis downed the headache powder in one and went to bed. It was no whiskey, but it would have to do.

 

***

 

Saturday 5thMay 1849

I have been struggling with compassion, over the course of this past week and not the sort that can be dealt with by a visit to one’s friendly local priest. This is Saturday night: I sit at my desk, in my bedroom, facing the wall (and, consequently, towards Francis) quite alone. Francis resides in his room, presumably also at his desk seeing as he sleeps the least of any man I know and, due to the layout of his room, facing towards _me_. Neither of us speaking, both of us thinking, our adieus bid hours ago and he is under the belief I am currently abed and steadfastly asleep. I am not abed- I am awake and restless with deception: I told Francis I visited a whore and it was a lie. Only the whore part, men are indeed the only of God’s creatures to catch my eye. Certainly the temptation was there, however in the end I never went and indulged myself. Though I have visited, before, the rooms of nameless men have been centre stage to some oof the most pleasurable, comforting and happy hours of my life. In truth, I could not think of any other way to broach the topic than with a whore; I thought at least it could be a common denominator, in addition I did not want to give Francis the impression that I am in anyway longing for a long-term man, or indeed any man in particular.

I am longing for him.

Sometimes the only way I can get to sleep is by pretending to myself that he longs for me too. It is useless- practically every soul in the world is available to him, he would not pick me even if I was the last living being in Creation ( _besides him_ \- an addendum I must include because, one memorable dinner Sir John posed a different question but with the same caveat and Francis without hesitation pointed out that in the given scenario the rest of the company would be long perished, thus saving us all the hassle of answering.) It makes me ashamed to admit it, however the horrors of the fateful Arctic voyage do not seem to have changed me for the better, it at all- I’m no fit leader, I value frivolous, silly things over anything of vital import- look at me just last week! Fuming over a ship viewing and an inconsequential, incoherent letter until the bare obvious needed to be pointed out to me- I could not sleep, that night, turning over in my mind whether Francis would have admitted to having a headache if I did not push him to do so.

Even that infirmary I took advantage of, unable to resist the chance to touch him on the pretence of checking for fever- I only thank Christ that he took my actions at face value, but even that causes me great distress for the embrace he bestowed on me later in the night. That hug was water to a dying man, I am touch-starved and lovelorn and when he embraced me, I- I cannot even put into words how greatly the touch comforted me. So comforted and grateful, I nearly forgot to hug back and when I remembered my grip was so strong I felt our bones creak with the force of it. These thoughts of mine will never see the light of day, which I am glad of. I will burn this diary once all the pages are filled, I think, lest anyone find it. The danger to my reputation should the truth ever be outed- nay, not ‘my’ reputation but the life I have created for myself. This life, this outright lie. Falsehood and fabrications have made me, stripped of them the truth leaves me a naked and ugly baby bird- the runt of the litter and ousted from the nest, soon to die of exposure.

I am so morbid tonight I could give Francis a run for his money- perhaps it’s the half-empty bottle of gin currently sitting on my desk. The irony, and the parallels I am drawing between me presently and the Francis of old are not lost on me, but as always with these narratives there remains one key difference between the central characters (and hark at I, calling myself ‘central’ as if anything would change without me!) which is that Francis has always been a good person. However he may conceal it, whether he wants to be or not, he is and has always been the sort of man part of me has yearned to emulate and earn the respect of. I’ve his friendship, but not his love. Shame-facedly, I admit that it is not enough for me- I want to be his everything; I want to play a central role in his life. I want- I want the two of us to become entwined. Alexander and Hephaestion. Jonathan and David. One soul in two. To know his mind and he mine, except- I fear it may that anyone who knows my mind will no longer love me. This brings us back ‘round to the central problems: without the falsehoods and the fabrications I am just James. A man like me will do amazing things to be seen. I will chase adrenaline, glory, praise, compliments and have done it all with a marked desperation in an effort to burn away everything at fault inside of me. It has not worked. Yet... if there is ever going to be a man who loves James, loves _me_ , I want it to be Francis. My feelings for him have reached the depth that I would hypothetically forsake another man’s love, admiration- refuse to take him as a lover, even- in favour of Francis’s friendship.

These past few weeks, it has not escaped my notice that our lives and struggles have had not insignificant similarities between them. One has mirrored the other; now we have become symmetrical and are balanced, at an impasse. I feel as though we are teetering on a high wire, a canyon below us and either end of the wire hammered into two separating ‘bergs. To continue, one of us must break the circle, the silence, the deadlock. It may explode, it may implode, and I do not know what outcome would be worse. It makes my stomach writhe, because the life we have settled into is greater a life than any I have ever known. Yet _one_ of us must do _something_ , before external circumstances force change upon us. Either the ice bergs will drift too far apart, or a great ship shall sail between them and snap the wire. No matter which case, we shall both of us fall and drown in icy waters. It is another answerless question. Answers are not fishes; even if they are, there is no fish in Arctic waters. This is Saturday night: half drunk, lonely, and alone. Good night.

 

***

 

The dreams were getting worse. His mouth could never rid itself of the taste of flowers and whiskey, and he picked his way through every meal. James was starting to worry about him, so Francis had begun avoiding him. Though it shamed him to admit, he felt safer with a distance between them. At times longing to have two miles of turbulent seas between them, as had been the case before they were frozen in. Conversations between them had become a rarity, more awkward, hot and bothered than they had e’er been even than trying to continue after _Bird Shit Island_. He was not being fair to the man, Francis knew, smacking his palm on the desk and trying to sit straighter in his chair. Terribly, horribly, miserably unfair and worse for the fact that James seemed determined to put off his own friends to stay and keep him company, despite Francis pointing out in the last occasion of their decreasing dialogues that it was no good the both of them to stew in their own misery. James, then, had fixed him with such a beseeching, open, tender look on his face it had taken his breath away. “Why should _either_ of us sit in misery? Especially alone.” And Francis- damn him damn him damn him- had left for his own room without even saying ‘goodnight’. This was the state of his life: he slept of he didn't (most nights he didn’t), any letter asking how things were with him was met with ‘I’m fine and there is no need to worry about me. The black dog is well away and will be for some time’. The times he wasn’t feeling guilty for lying he was feeling guilty over not being guilty. Sleep brought no respite- he _had_ brought some sleeping powders, on one of his few trips outside the house, which for a few days had given him back life enough to verbally spar with James and _live_ with the man again. It was when he had caught himself reaching for the tonic with the same fluid, instinctual movement of muscle memory with which fifteen months ago he had still reached for whiskey that had brought his temporary idyll to a screaming halt. The next morning, he had bullied James into admitting his own sleeplessness and offloaded the remaining sachets onto him, feeling guilty over the man’s gratuity and his belief that he had left the house that day specifically on his behalf and thus the cycle began again.

Francis sank into the chair and slumped down until the crown of his head was nearly a foot below the top of the chair- he was too tired to feel any more guilt. Outstretched in front of him his hand rested on the tabletop still, he cupped it and curled his fingers. There was no whiskey bottle to hold. No rope or wood to hold. No hand to hold, only empty air. “Dear God I would not blame the man if he did kill me.” The truth took shape in the dark air: the ruination of his life was his blame and his alone. Francis clenched his fist and pulled himself together.

 

***

 

Monday 22nd of May 1849

A man like me will do amazing things to be seen. What becomes of a man when he no longer lives gloriously? The truth is revealed and, as per Corinthians, love supposedly rejoices. This past week and a half has been perhaps one of the strangest and most difficult times of my life thus far (and I have sat through several of Lady Jane’s speeches, don’t forget) and it is all to do with Francis. The man, though he is as he claims, a miserable bastard, ha a variable slew of people in whom he can confide his heart and soul. People tested and tried by years of hardship, who proved themselves long ago and who now exchange a plethora of correspondence with him, seemingly un-minding that he rarely ever actually goes and meets them in person.

Perhaps that is how they remain such fast friends?

But even when he gets these damned silly notions in his head that he can’t or shouldn’t or oughtn’t or won’t see them, he still has them. I have no one. Oh, Barrow- Ross has also proved as good a casual acquaintance as any. But, primarily, Francis. He is the only one who knows- who _knows_ , yet I cannot talk to him. I want to talk to him. I want him to talk to _me_ about whatever is bothering him these past few days, what reason is behind the black dog gnawing upon his heart like a bone, and- it has all of a sudden jus this moment occurred to me that it is perhaps something that I have done, something that has upset him or troubled him or put the wind up his sails about remaining friends with me. The what or why remains elusive to me, but I am used to that. I find I often have more questions than answers when it comes to Francis- the man is a Pandora’s Box, sealed shut tighter than the Tower of London or Stanley up in his Retreat in the Cotswolds when he wants to be. At first I tried to ascertain what it was that had happened and how reparations could be made but, alas, twas not to be. The few times I caught hold of him he pretended that nothing was wrong- this is an iciness I shall simply have to wait to thaw, but birds die in winter.

Should anyone ever reading this ever expands their thoughts on it to me in whichever medium, I’ve no doubt they will think that He is the only thing I have to worry about. In truth: he is the easiest thing to concern myself with, I think in part down to the elusiveness of him. A man has no need to fix a thing that is forever out of reach and Francis, in the sense of distance, is a star. Who am I fooling with these trite ramblings? He is a star in many more ways than that.

Other articles concerning my attention include the fact that Francis and I have been invited to a supper in Richmond, a nice meal and a nice place but in the company of many other officers from _Terror_ and _Erebus_. Should it just be them I would have no qualms in going- wild horses could not hold me back, but this whole ‘do’ was the brain child of one admiral or another, and the rest acting accomplices and I loathe every one of them. No, not loathe- I did and do find them easy enough to talk to, to charm, but they ask questions of our quest I am reluctant to answer beyond what we put in our official reports for the court martial that took up the last three months of 1848. They think the injuries the men suffered (here, I look at my own arms, wrinkled like crepe paper with the burns- Stanley saved me in China and I him in the Arctic) glorious trophies akin to a deer head or bear skin and suitable for the mantelpiece. No. They were... the scars run deep in all of us and the sights some of us bore witness to I wish to never speak of again, maybe even go so far as to erase them from my memories entirely. I do not want my men (for they still are such, despite my lack of current command) subjected to that; reliving their torture that only sheer luck and God saved them from. From- from some which was my own fault, I know, the Carnivale, my own God-damned sense of triviality and warped priorities. The men deserve better and the admiralty do not deserve these men, when scarce even a quarter of their top brass ranks have even set foot on a ship in the open water, fought in a battle or spent days covered in blood and sweat. The men deserve better than me as a commander-captain, but I fully admit to that failing of mine and I am attempting to bury it- I am not worthy of- my stories are all gilt and pretty things and I failed to live up them and proved myself the little bastard Portuguese boy when I agreed to the Carnivale and I should have—

 

Interruption was wrought and I cannot remember my last thought to continue as if the interlude never happened, but it is of no matter- Francis came! Knocking on my door, he allowed me to open it of my own volitions which, in itself is unusual to me because normally he would knock and enter without so much as a by-your-leave, but as I think I have aforementioned he has been very conscious of me as of late. So: he asked and I answered. Thinking me having gotten out of bed, as I had thrown my nightshirt on before I could lose the will to do so some hours ago, he apologised for waking me _but it is imperative I speak to you, James, and- and apologise for my behaviour as of late. I know I have been beastly. God knows how you have had the patience to live with me, when I have hardly been equal to the task myself_.

It was a clear reference to the melancholy I know oft plagues him- how I wish he would confide in me as I have in him! - “You know that I will never begrudge you my forgiveness, brother.” _That_ , at least, seemed to calm him somewhat, but it also rendered the conversation rather dead; neither of us knew how to continue with such a heavy burden on our shoulders.

He cleared his throat, apologised again for disturbing me and muttered lowly about perhaps being time for him to go to bed. It was difficult of me to do what I did next- the dark purple thumb prints under his eyes proved sleeplessness still had him fast in its grip- but I wanted to keep on talking to him, either side of my door way, relaxed and calm as if we were lovers who had come to the end of the walk home. It felt warm there, and I have been lonely haunting these rooms. To defend myself a little: the loneliness has been unbearable, in addition to which he did not seem o’erkeen to return to his own bedroom, thus excusing me enough to whittle on about a topic I do not even now recall, though the exchange is only minutes old. It had its intended effect, though, as the conversation flowed on down river, meandering here and there but always straightening out in the end. Conversation comes easy to the two of us so long as we do not stray too deeply, as I have observed in that situation our respective feelings of vulnerability lead us to tread water and sooner rather than later fall back on droll remarks in order to alleviate the airlessness of the room. The various topics of interest flew by- perhaps unoriginally, by anyone’s standards, but easy. Because he had asked me just three days ago on Sunday morning if I was still having my own trouble with insomnia (the simple fact that he remembered an off remark muttered in the middle of a very tense past situation made my heart sing) I felt obliged to ask how _he_ had been faring, given that his ill humours had indirectly been the catalyst for this late night exchange.

Rather brusquely, my concerns were dismissed: he was fine, apologetic, simply in need of a good night’s sleep. In all honesty, I suspect him of dishonesty, so just as brusque I asked if his melancholy was coming to the fore again.

“No!” snapped he. Then, quieter, looking away as if he was ashamed, he added, “It is beginning to recede now. It’s no matter.”

Then, I surmised, my suspicions were correct. I hurt, too, that he was hurting and he had not trusted to tell me so, which I tried to put across to him. “I’m sorry.” This he said, leaning on my door frame, looking weary. “When I am... I just would hate to bother you.”

“You are far from a bother.” If t’weren’t for the fact that a man in such a state ought be spoken to rather more gently than the average man, my emotions would not have kept my voice to an acceptable volume. “I have told you secrets I dare tell no other man alive, Francis, and you have taken on my burden without complaint- do you think I would balk to share yours in return?”

“You do not owe me anyth-“

“It’s not about being indebted! It’s about-“ the man is the most exasperating creature I have ever met and flusters me like no other; I have to take care what I say around him lest he tries me so much that the truth slips out by mistakes “-being a friend. Your friend. I feel- sometimes I feel you do not trust me, other times I worry about you endlessly- and it doesn’t help when your natural instinct is to scurry off like a rat to a drain pipe!”

Harsh words, but Francis smiled, lo and behold! Smiled broad enough for me to catch sight of the gap between his teeth! My insides went warm.

“Good God, James, of course I trust you!” Here, he looked away again, chewing on his lip and furrowing his brow and looking (even from a purely objective point of view) adorably flustered. “I trust you implicitly, James. Do not ever believe I don’t... ‘Tis merely that- that, well, I do not like to worry you. And...often it is difficult for me to- to talk to people- anyone, really, not just you, when I get like that. I’m not- I’m not all that used to people enquiring, anyway, much less asking me to explain myself.”

“So you are saying I make life difficult for you.”

He smiled at me, tilting his head back and rocking on his feet, “Immeasurably so.”

My God- is it too much to hope that he meant that sentence akin to a love confession? Lord, is it very wrong of me to replay those words in my mind over and over? I am- even writing this now as I am, all I hear in my mind is his voice- mayhaps I am just over thinking- creating a story out of this to, before my poor heart goes mad at the state of the world- but- but- but- but. No, I shall not lead myself down that road tonight- I know where it ends, and I want to record precisely the rest of our conversation so as to never risk forgetting it.

J: I’m afraid little change is to be expected there. But I am glad you feel more yourself than you have these been past few days.

F: Thank you, _truly_ , I have- it has been a lonely time and I have missed you.

J: Then next time try, Francis, please try, I beg of you. Come and find me- or shout, should you be in no fit state to walk. Your bedroom is only down the hall, I am sure I will hear you.

F: I will, I will. But not tonight- I’ve kept you enough as it is, enjoyable as it has been.

J: Are you going to be able to sleep?

F: Eventually, but I’ve some letters I need to catch up on first- did you leave the matches in the drawing room?

J: Yes, but, come now, Francis, you have been up as long as I. Longer, if I were to hazard a guess. There’s no good of staying awake- do you want me to find you one of those sleeping powders you gave me?

Here, he looked away a third time, smiling but his eyes were tight. Grimacing.

F: No need, I find they’ve little effect on me. Don’t worry- I shall feel free to come and bother you if Morpheus’ charms continue to evade me.

J: Hopefully not, I hear the man is as charming as I am.

F: (snorting) Then hopefully I will hear the tale of Bird Shit Island again- I will fall asleep without hesitation.

Laughing, I hugged him and bud him goodnight- he stiffened in my embrace, and not in the euphemistic way that phrase could be intended. He bid me a bien nuit in return and left to write letters- I think he must use as many sheaves as I do here in this journal. He always seems to be writing something to someone. Presumably it will be to Ross, or if not to then certainly he will be mentioned somewhere there in. They never fail to update one another regularly; at times even twice a week! They sit down and write to one another and I promise myself I am not jealous. I break that promise every time.

Every time I think of Ross, my mind takes me back to that New Year’s ball we all attended. I, who aim to look as best I can whilst also appearing effortless; Francis, who simply looked like he had gotten dressed- there are no pretentions with that man, no delusions of grandeur of the sort or scale that I possess. That night was a rare occasion that I did not enjoy in the least- the weather was cold and the people empty, not helped by Ross and Francis disappearing together for some time. I felt lost at sea without a star to navigate by. Ross is his greatest of acquaintances- which, I know, mind you, I ought to be pleased at this. Certainly Ross is a corking fellow by all accounts and yet.... _I_ want to be his dear James. His only James. His lover, husband, companion, friend. I have wanted it- wanted _him_ \- for a very long time, before I even recognised the nature of feelings in myself and I want him to want me too. The North Pole was a necessity, I fear, else the bond between us now would never have come into being without it. Yet, it’s not shared experience, exactly, nor a shared burden- if that were the case I’d be liable to fall head over heels for anyone from Manson to Little (possibly not the latter- poor Jopson would have conniption fit). Not a shared burden, I don’t believe, but something o a deeper nature. Shared secrets? Perhaps, for I have bared my soul to the ornery bastard sitting on the other side of the wall in the drawing room, but for once the Almighty has been merciful to me because I don’t think that is the case. Thank Goodness- I’d hate for my entire life to explode from that one dark point of origin. Exactly what this intangible point of joining is, I do not know, only- I want the man to like me? When we first me he did not like me, nor I him. ‘Respect’ was some cry off but privately I think we both did, or- we clung to whatever fragments stopped the anticlimax of meeting fold into total disappointment or- or- I don’t know. What was I just saying about having more questions than answers when it comes to Francis?

It can’t be the depth of what we share- I cherished him long before I told him. Maybe every man must be a little but in love to share his secrets; but something has changed since we returned. Twisted deep like the roots of a tree, and the baby bird is lonesome in the nest and the branches are bare of leaves to shield it. Francis is more distant, not aloof but there is no other word I know to describe it. Times have come that I worry perhaps he has taken up drinking again- a horrendous thought, yet one that keeps returning from its exile. Francis mentioned in passing Miss Cracroft the other day. And before that there were utterances about Sir John. And when embracing just now, he froze as if he couldn’t wait to be gone from me- he seems only comfortable now with distance between us. Mayhaps I am being unkind- he has not even once mentioned drink and I on my part keep my vices locked in my own quarters- I don’t even think he knows the content of my bedside drawer, so certainly he would not rifle through it at leisure, or try to. If only he would rifle through my _other_ drawers _!_

Since our return he has not drank a drop to my knowledge. The only mention of it made was when perusing an article in the newspaper, about something or other; they wrote he had turned sober because of a renewed grasp upon the Christian Faith. He was furious, though never told me why. I just- I just want some explanation- recent melancholy does not account for all of these things listed above, I am sure of it, else it would be a miracle he had been able to do anything with his life at all if he was regularly crippled by such a malady. But I do not want to think he lied to me.

This is the trouble of bearing one’s secrets: you become paranoid the witness now harbours their own, too.

But in England surely every man does, in this city, this society that implores us to be stoic above all else? Are we not all of us treasure troves of hidden passion and deep longings? The aurora borealis is nature’s own doing- men are not made of stone; we have lively, colourful emotions at play once the darkness is pierced. When the newspaper announced our ability to view it, the news threw me into quite the tizzy, Francis comforted me then- he always does. I have images of us in bed together, warm with a jigsaw on our laps and he doing most of the work. Does he think perhaps I am weak, fanciful, overly emotional and hysterical? Childlike and needing to be coddled and watched over because I could not sleep the night without twitching the curtains aside, seeing the heavens dance and nearly throwing up all over the carpet, my heart convinced I had never left the Arctic and my head spinning? Surely if that was the case he would not have sat up with me all night?

More and more questions, round and round in circles. I think I t best maybe if I do the gentlemanly thing and bury my feelings- God knows I’ve had enough of them, even in the unlikely event Francis hasn’t. It does me no good- there are times I would like to have Sir John close by to confess all to: the man’s sheer force of will could stop anymore thoughts for a time. But he also gossiped and muttered- and, it’s late and I should sleep. This has been an unprecedentedly long entry, with hardly any sense or coherence. The only answer I have come to is this: I must bury my feelings; confine them to death and pray they will claw their way out of the grave in a form acceptable at navy dinners.

I wonder how many lives could have been saved if men in the aftermath of great vulnerability and such nakedness, had the priest or friend or whoever it was they had confessed all to turned around and assured the poor sod they are still classed as a friend. Are men doomed to be locked in this age forever? For all the problems the females of the species suffer in English-speaking societies they can, at least, have feelings. Intimate confessions in low voices in private halls and rooms, sitting close together and drawing utmost comfort from one another. The world, I truly believe, is working towards a day when everyone knows peace. I pray it will be in my life time. It IS Wednesday night. I am tired, lonely, done, and that joke has been done to the death already and my pen hand aches something dreadful. Several pages have been dedicated to tonight’s events- and another one, now, even as I contrive to wrap up all loose ends (Hah! That is a joke, and it is on me!). No matter- the quicker these pages are filled the sooner I may burn them.

 

***

The night of the 23rd May 1849 began well, having followed a very easy day. It was when the grandfather clock struck five, however, that circumstances began to go downhill. First James could not choose the right watch chain, then he had misplaced his favourite cufflinks, now he was in two minds over attending the dinner or not and how late would be ‘fashionably’ so and how late just simply rude.

“Just _go_ , James, else this whole faff will have been pointless!” growled Francis over his newspaper, one hand resting its knuckles against his temple in an attempt to keep his patience. “You’ll need to catch a hansom if you don’t want to be late.” He would not put it past the man to have deliberately orchestrated this whole scenario in order to be ‘fashionably’ late. If being late was now considered fashionable, thank Christ he was reaching an age where he didn’t have to pretend to give a good goddamn about the latest ideas some clever people got into their heads.

Ignorant or just ignoring his sage advice, it was difficult to tell, but he carried on regardless, mustering as he did so. “I have to put the fire out, Francis, it can’t just be left burning!”

He took up the poke, as one was wont to do when tamping a fire and Francis’ stomach turned over and he was out of his chair before he quite realised what he was doing. “Give it here for pity’s sakes!” snatching the poker, he turned his frustration out onto the hearth and as good as stomped the remaining embers with his boot and James- what was he fussing with _now_ , in the name of all God- his scarf. It was _May_.

He threw in the poker in the stand and flinched from the clatter, hiding the terror by snatching up his paper and returning to his chair, freezing as he realised h had just turned his back on James and left the poker there- some unidentifiable cry had him turning on his heel again. James was looking at him aghast. “Francis- Francis! You are not even ready yet, my God, are you-“

“I’m staying here.” Rather than sitting, he sunk into his chair, legs unsteady and knees weak, “Have a nice evening, won’t you?”

Now having the chance of observing the Captain’s evening dress- resplendent waistcoat, immaculate coat, buttons polished and shining, having done his hair perfectly and not a single strand out of place, looking- looking a perfect English gentleman he was suddenly very glad he had chosen not to go.

“Not going- why the hell not?” the anger was unexpected and he sunk lower. He wanted to say he had a headache. He did not want to lie. He stayed silent. “Well?”

“I… was not invited,” at the very least, he was making history tonight: the feeblest excuse in the history of the world.

“Not invited my foot! The envelope was addressed to us both. The letter was addressed to us both. They saved on the price of a stamp now we live together- what of it?”

_I wouldn’t be wanted, even if we had gotten separate invites_. “See it your way, James, but I’m not going. You are- you should leave now, else you’ll be late.”

“What?” desperation had leaked into his tone. Or something similarly tender- regret? Mourning? Whatever it was, Francis would have liked to say he was unmoved. The horrible truth of it was that he was moved, it did matter, and it didn’t make a difference. “… come on… everyone… see… Goodsir will be there, Bridgens and Peglar and…” he rattled off every attending officer.

Francis closed his eyes. When he spoke next, his voice was thin and tired. “I’m not going.”

“Fine!” it was not fine. “Fine, have it your way and do not come- it’s not a mandatory attendance, I’ll give you that.” He was pulling his coat on and doing up the buttons, then turning away to the door. Still fiddling with his clothes and not once sparing a glance in his direction, James said, “You know Francis, for men who bet their lives upon your abilities, you can be damned cold towards them. Damn near as cold as the Arctic.”

Surprised his bones did not creak as he turned his head, Francis fixed upon the dark, hunched over figure and waited for the glare to meet his eyes at last. “Just bugger off, will you?” _How many knives would be in reach at an officer’s dinner?_

James’ face hardened and he stood tall, fury burning in his eye sockets in place of calm blue seas. “Forgive me if I do not come back.”

 

***

 

The guilt of James’ words hut him the second the front door slammed shut and he was left alone in the drawing room, fire gone out and one single, solitary candle burning in the farthest corner. _You drove him away_ and yet, Francis still could not feel anything. _You drove your friend away, man,_ feel _something!_ The paper slid off his knee to the floor yet he did not move to retrieve it. He was very conscious of the fact that even in the miraculous event he was able to rise and chase after James, he had nothing to say.

A curtain hung over him- unsure if everything he saw with his eyes was quite real, or what time it was, feeling unhurried and unwanted- which once he had battled with to push aside and draw back to free himself and now he let the heavy metaphorical fabric fold over his shoulders, cloak-like. Perhaps it was the melancholy after all, except after nearly fifty years of his problems seeming in one way or another to lead back to that charred black streak of ruin running through him for once he just wanted it to be the cause of some other complaint. A malady or- or- just an issue that would have a _solution_ , damn it. Not a black sea that came and went as it pleased, bringing tidal waves of misery down on his head or- worse- trickling into his heart and slowly replacing his blood; pumping throughout his body to all extremities whilst the culprit itself gathered and sunk to the bottom of his ribcage. All these thoughts sinking slow as molasses led to the one conclusion Francis had been trying to put off for weeks now: there was no well inside of him. No well where his heart ought to be. _He_ was the well, the misery, the problem, and there was no answer.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. One small action rippled out and before he lost the ability, he stood and blew out the candle and exited out the front door himself, snagging his coat into the crook of his elbow in-situ and barely remembering to lock the door behind himself. London was a dismal place when its shadows were long: bleak, buildings overhanging and squalor down every alley despite the government turning out new schemes for improvement every other day. Maybe he should go back to Ireland as James had suggested all those week ago- nothing had come of the rumours he had heard from Barrow, but that did not mean all opportunity was lost, or that there was no reason at all for him to return. He had not seen the place in a long while and- dear Lord, was that the only reason he could come up with? And a poor reason, at that. No reason to go, no reason to stay- James, of course, dear Ross and Ann, the hoard of other friends he had acted so dreadfully towards over the past few weeks (longer) making feint reparations and apologies by letter only, declining all invitations to be sociable and the only noble aspect of the whole affair with melancholy that the poets did not stop waxing lyrically upon ad nauseam was that Francis was now making a concerted effort not to make everyone as miserable as he felt. _Bird Shit Island_ and the look on James’ face, the stilted conversation as he drank more and more whiskey. And here he was: walking only because that was the ‘done’ thing to do when outside. _If I am arrested for loitering upon my own doorstep, will James come and bail me out?_ In his current mood, probably not.

His tread grew heavier, his thoughts darker. It was strange what a man remembered, of the Arctic; some nights he could call to mind very clearly indeed- one, with Sophia Cracroft in his heart, rejection in his head, pistol in his hand, alone in his cabin, though that was all that he retained of the night and still now could not recollect the day, the night, the reason for his action or the reason he didn’t ultimately commit the act, except he’d been glad in the morning Jopson had not had to witness the sight of a corpse frozen solid. Whereas other nights were lost to him entirely- striking James had disappeared into the wind, only flashes of a proud, exuberant Thomas sitting atop his own mauled leg and Lady Silence’s smooth features. The rest he had bullied Jopson into telling him from his sick bed, once he’d come out from complete delirium, piecing together the words the man would not say. It came down to: his fault. It always did. Everything, everything- all of it- all of it- it was all my fault. The church bells tolled and startled him, stumbling sideways and into the shoulder of some burly by-passer, who shoved him in kind and yelled after his retreating back. Francis tried to breath, realising how tight his chest had become. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. When had it gotten so late? Had James left late or had he? How long had he been walking, and where was he, none of these houses looked familiar and the street names blurred when he looked at them. There was a cold touch on his elbow and his head hurt and his eyes were wet. _The wind_ he told himself firmly. _The wind and nothing more_.

Down the winding road at the end of the street was a public house. Rowdy, loud, merry and reeling. Swollen with patrons, the alcohol flowing indoors and out he could smell even here, all the way at the top of the street. He had stopped. His feet would not move. Francis Crozier would have sold his soul to be the sort of man who turned around and did not get within ten feet of the corrupt establishment. He was not. His feet could move but only forward. _No_ \- no- no- no- he did not want this- he did not- he did not- even if- no- no- what would James say? “James!” a cry haggard and delighted all at once, once said in the Arctic upon discovering his second’s onset of scurvy. Now spoken to another James, one who had never let him down or taken any of his melancholy-addled actions to heart. An absent James. He squinted and frowned- absent? No, no, no, he was right- in front of him. gone. Gone. He was never there _and you are going mad, you fool_. If he died tonight, would it be because he had pushed every last kindly Samaritan away, or had he pushed everybody away because he was going to die?

Not death, an explosion. An explosion and he wouldn’t allow anyone to be struck by the shrapnel- but- but- forgive me if I do not come back- I worry about you, Francis- a letter- if only he had been able to write to the man instead of live with him, there would be no emotional detritus for James to content with. Never never never had Francis wanted to add to his scars.

I’m sorry.

Whether the words were spoken aloud or merely thought he could never tell, but forgiveness came in the form of fog rushing to encroach on his vision. No longer seeing but walking because if he stopped he would not start again. The desire for whiskey was overwhelming. No, no, Francis, no, think of Thomas’ leg. James’ face. Jopson. You did that. You did that Francis you and the whiskey did that. It’s a miracle he still looks at you, miracle any of them do. Miracle, the wafer tasting of flowers and parching his tongue. He could no longer see anything in front of him now- the pub was still there but he smelt nothing and only tasted the whiskey and felt the burn that come not from it but from shame. Thomas’ leg. Jokes of Sunday Roast at last. He’d been in a trembling, delicate state when he paid visit and made that joke- about his own leg!- and Francis had cut the visit short by retching into the bucket; the second visit Thomas had offered his wooden leg for the job if he felt the urge again. Not necessary, in the end, even diving into sleep as he’d been eager to do whilst recovering and he’d heard the thunk of the newly-uneven gait. Step- drag- thud- step- drag- thud. The rest of his life, with a ball and chain weighing him down you did that Francis, you. My fault, you did that your fault yes all of it, your fault. Under his legs, his own feet stumble and tremble, yet hold him up. Just- just.

Someone was squeezing him tightly- tight enough he could not breathe, the smell of a charred baby bird wafted under his nose- dish- delicacy- death. The pub had vanished and the desire for drink was still there. He stumbled on, looking for another. The fog had not abated. Pure white fog, unlike any from the grey soup of London- if this city had bright blue heavens above, would he still feel lonely? _Yes_. But the problem was not that he felt lonely. White fog billowing from his mouth, the thunk of a wooden leg on the deck, the deck the creature attacked him on- the deck he went on after the blood- the deck he went on because your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault. Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault, yours. He still wanted a drink. Deep, visceral need tore at his heart. A drink a drink. Just one. One sleepless night but one brief death. Just one. He dreamed of dying. Ten. Eleven. Sometimes dying took a long time. _Ah… Sergeant…_ the burial crater exploded, all debris white, a sun gone … Bryant’s arm skittered over the ice, body elsewhere and his knees gave out under him- the black circle looming until the swallowed him whole- the cold- the carrion- Christ- Lord Almighty- the Lord’s light was there- there- there! And then, ladies, the Lord God Almighty shewed me the light… the mouth crunched over his head- his leg was stinking of the same carrion- toothed and stripped to the bone- roast chicken- Sunday Roast at last- Sir John- Thomas- the _thing_ and the oblivion it brought- if he died tonight oblivion waited- no religious man- Leviathans Book Thirteen- know they death- empty empty empty empty empty all of it empty all of it and his fucking fault all empty empty empty oi you empty headed fuck wit!

The world shook about him and Francis gasped and scrambled to remain upright, hands finding purchase on Thomas Blanky’s shoulder. “Thomas?” all that came out was a wheeze no louder than the wind- his mouth was dry, overcome with roses, wrung out and limp. He sagged under his own weight, certain that Thomas was truly there and would catch him, uncaring if he was really not.

“Are ye back wit’ me now, ye damned Irishman?” Blanky’s face invaded every millimetre of his vision; so close he became dizzy and sagged lower. A hot, heavy weight pawed his shoulder.

“You are real,” Crozier murmured, in a tone that given any more volume would become a prayer.

“I’ll take tha’ as a ‘no’.”

Francis squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, his friend was still there. “Dunno where I am, Thomas.”

The fingers gripped tighter and it didn’t give him any support- could he topple over on top of a man with one leg? “You’ve been stood shakin’ in front of a grotty pub for the past ten minutes- _The Hanging Man_ , as it ‘appens. Looks nowhere near as good as mine. ‘S the twenty third of May, 1849. Wednesday evening- well, Thursday morning, now. Pub’s on Wapping Street, if that helps.”

It didn’t, but somehow he managed to exhale anyway. “I didn’t- I didn’t go in, Tom. And I haven’t- I _didn’t_ “ horrifically, his eyes were wet. “I- I nearly- oh _fuck_.”

“Shh,” the gentle tone broke him and more tears star-dropped down his cheeks. Absently, he felt tugging at his elbows, then a warm weight about his shoulders he nearly cried to lose but lost anyway, and the he was being tilted back against the brick wall of a building- alley, an alley, with gentle soft noises and snot on his face and- “D’you want to go home?”

Francis nodded. The brown eyes were too kind, he was smiling and they crinkled like waves thrown up against the hull of a boat. More tears fell. Speaking, it was more rasp than voice, “Can I go home?” He felt confused, wrung out, exhausted, head swimming and sooner rather than later, the shame and the guilt were going to sweep him into the ocean. He wanted to be as close to home as he could when that happened.

“Course you can.” Rustling, then Thomas was manoeuvring him into his coat and pulling it tightly around him, speaking gentle words- how could he balance on just one leg? One leg- the shame hit and his knees buckled. “Whoa now! Ooof- easy, duck, _easy_ does it. There-“a stable sitting position was found “-hush now, duck, ‘m still taking you home. Jes’ let’s both sit down an’ catch our breathes for a minute or two, ‘ey? Been tryin’ to catch up wi’tha for ten minutes- ne’er would’ve, if thee hadn't fell into tha’ bastard up the road. Called your name more times’n I can count- figured you’d be ignoring me, ye bastard. Now-“ his eyes turned kinder, which only made it worse, especially when Francis was becoming only too aware of how cold he was and how hard it was to breathe. The bear blind sprung up around him, adorned with soft blue flowers as Blanky wiped his face with a handkerchief. Strange an interruption as it was, it brought his thoughts to a halt long enough he could begin to breathe “-what in fucking hell were ye doin’ out in th’ cold at this hour, in this state?”

He swallowed, feeling the cold even more at the mention of it again. “I could ask the same of you.”

Surprisingly- or perhaps not surprisingly at all- the man laughed. “There’s the petty bastard I know! Well’s it happens, we Yorkshiremen ain't as stupid as are accents would ‘ave you believe- I can read ‘tween the line when needs be. Francis Crozier sayin’ ‘e was fine and not complainin’ over one single thing? Sayin’ I weren’t the first t’ask how ye were and bendin’ o’er backwards to tell me how ye were fine? Bollocks. _Bollocks_.”

With such special emphasis on the second profanity, he leaned forward, squinting in a way that made him squirm as an exhibition at the Zoo. A frown scribbled across his mouth, “I was fine.”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

“You fucking were _not_ ,” Thomas growled, standing up and pulling Francis up under the arms. “Now’f ye don’t know ya way back home, next thing out tha mouth best be tellin’ me ye least know th’ way to the cab rank. Because if thee tells me I’ve ta piggyback you all the way to Clerkenwell, I’m goin’ to be fucking pissed.”

A joke about this particular inability of Long John Silver’s came to mind, then came the leg, the Tuunbaq, the whiskey, and what he had nearly done. Deftly, he turned away and retched into the gutter, unsure if the burning was in his throat or in his eyes and tasting ash in the air the same way he had at the Carnivale. Far above him were mild mutterings, soft and delicate as clouds- should clouds speak in a thick Yorkshire accent- and for a moment Francis was tempted to let himself drift into the deep dark blue, buffeted from side to side by snowy throngs of cotton wool and not a worry in the world.

Making things harder for the friend who had come to you in your hour(s) of need was not the sort of conduct becoming of a knighted Commodore in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, in particular not to the friend you had caused an amputation and then thought up an awful joke about seconds ago. Leg- amputation- whiskey- whiskey- pub- ten minutes- my fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault. “Thomas,” he coughed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He had apologized an awful lot in the past few months, hadn't he?

“’S alright, Francis, it doesn’t matter.” With tottering steps, they started back up the road, Thomas looking for the taxi rank and Francis recalling the most basic of mathematic lessons: the more of an action you commit, the more worthless it becomes.

 

***

 

The hansom driver nodded at the prone form huddled against his shoulder, with his hand wrapped round its waist, “Mate had a bit much to drink, has he?” as Thomas clinked over the coins lying cold and clammy in his palm.

“Summat like that.” At once, he felt bad for replying in the affirmative- Francis swore he had not touched a drop either tonight or since the January previous and he believed him. But what other excuse was available to one when trying to explain away a psychological break on the same possible level of Dr Stanley?

The one mercy of tonight, at least, was that Francis had about as much awareness as if he _had_ been imbibing hard spirits, not emitting even so much as a whimper until Thomas started to pat down at his pockets for the key to the front door. “James said he wouldn’t come back tonight.”

“Oh?” he tried to keep his voice high above his thoughts. “Why’s that?” _If I’m stuck out here on the fucking doorstep for the rest of the buggering night, they’ll both wish the fucking Tuunbaq’d finished me off._

“Pissed him off.”

“Given that’s how most conversations ‘tween you two end up, you’ll need to be more specific- aha!” He tossed the key up in the air, caught it, and set to unlocking the door, noticing how the rooms beyond were still slumbering in darkness. “Don’t think Jamie-boy’s back yet- where’d ye say ‘e’s gone again?”

“Dinner,” the man mumbled, so low it may have been slurred. “With th’officers.”

“Hmph, I notice I didn’t get a bloody invite- ah! What the fu- bloody umbrella stand! Christ, where d’you keep the lamps, you old codger?”

What followed next was several minutes of stumbling, swearing, swerving and staggering, culminating in two shivering, troubled men of a certain age sitting on either side of the hearth in their respective armchairs, one ignoring the steaming teacup at his elbow and the other merrily sipping at his tea from a whiskey glass. “Now don’t think it’s escaped me notice ye never told me what y’done to piss ‘im off. Very perceptive bloke, me. What happened?”

Francis sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, “Start me off upon that subject and we may be here a long while.”

Meant humorously- though the timbre in which it was spoken bore little evidence of it- Thomas leaned forward and replied, devoid of all humour, “As long as you need me.”

He swallowed and shuffled in his chair, sitting on his hands and then wringing them discretely in his lap, eyes flickering everywhere yet staying nowhere, discomfort writ into every inch of his posture. Thomas sighed and set his glass down; the man was one of his closest friends, an ally, a comrade, a mate and he was at times the biggest, silliest, foolish idiot he had ever met.

“There was- you know how much he fusses over his appearance before these things, and I told him I would see to the fire and- and…” the words trailed off, they and Francis; ensuing shrug equally hopeless. Growling, Thomas leaned forward again, _if the bastard is cut up over a fucking lover’s tiff I swear…_ “He thought I was to attend with him, admittedly at no point beforehand did I disabuse him of the notion. So, when it reached five o’clock and he learned only then, it didn’t sit awfully well. There was- I swore at him and- and- he as good as said I was a bad captain- he was right. After that I went out- I don’t know why I went out for a walk, or why- and, um, I’ve- I lied to you, earlier. I haven’t… been alright, for a little while.”

_I knew it_. Victory was bitter on his tongue. Thomas took a moment to truly, _truly_ look the man over in place of any sort of the comforting rubbish that he knew they both balked at. Pale, shaking, though some of that due to the cold, no doubt; thin and tired (that last adjective more usual than unfamiliar), sober. Sober, thank God- his leg flared with a smouldering twinge where the bone stopped now it was thawing so close to the flames, as it always did- ah. Guilt was a terrible thing to a sober man, and Francis felt more guilt than most. But Ice Master Thomas Blanky had not put up with Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier for over a decade not to have his moods down to a fine art form, other things were at stake here, deeper and stranger and colder. What turned a man to madness? What set Captain Crozier’s mind down a path with no return?

Thomas Blanky had his answer.

“How is Captain Fitzjames?” His answer was compiled and stacked up before his very eyes: the non-sequitur, the confusion, the blush, the eyes, the _look_. “Does he love you back?”

Another shrug, “No. And- no, before you interrogate me. I haven’t- haven’t told him.”

_Biggest fucking idiot in the Navy_. “You haven’t- Francis, you bloody fucking fool the man’s so in love with you a blind man could see it!” He took a hefty swallow of his tea, nursing a dire need for something stronger. From the frown on the other man’s face, one would have thought that someone had just told him the sky was green. _Biggest fucking idiot in the British Isles_ , “The bloke’s been lookin’ at ye like he’s half of mind to bend y’over the nearest table since we sailed round Greenland, ‘nd ye tellin’ me neither of you’ve done owt about it?” a head shake, bewildered and lost in the wilderness. “Not even an angry fuck?” Head shake. “Held hands? Nearly kissed? Fuck me- fell on top of each other face to face an’ took too long to get out th’ compromising position?” Another head shake. _In the world. In the whole of the buggering goddamn world_. The only one more stupid was the object of the man’s affections- God, they were perfect for each other. “Why the hell not?”

“Because- because- Goddamnit, Thomas, he’s not interested in- _that_ with _me_! Just leave it, will you?”

“Fine.” He gave just enough of a pause to let Francis sigh in relief, relax into his chair and shoulders slump before he added: “”Instead tell me what else is bothering you.” At the surprised look, he couldn’t help but laugh. “D’you think I would let ye off that easy, Francis? No- out wit’ all, _now,_ we’ll get all this mess sorted out ‘fore Jamie-boy comes home an’ ye can confess your undyin’ love to th’ bastard.”

During the pause this time, the clock ticked loudly, the fire crackled and silence was deafening; Francis’ face fell down and he looked everywhere but at the other armchair, whilst Blanky decided that this was going to take rather a long time and he deserved a smoke if he wasn’t going to be drinking for the foreseeable future and thus occupied himself with his pipe.

Eventually, he checked his watch and saw they had spent the better part of a quarter of an hour waiting for Francis to speak. He looked over, saw the same state of play writ clearly upon his features as had been there at the beginning of his unconventional invitation and decided to go for broke; opening his own mouth and speaking, unable to quite define the emotions stirring within but hoping to God he was not taking pity on the man. “D’you want to know what I think? I reckon ‘s all a load of shit: you love James, but you’re terrified it’s unrequited. _It’s not._ You feel guilty over how the expedition got to be an absolute fucking cock up. _It wasn’t your fault_. No doubt ye worry ‘bout Fitzjames, too- he’s a big boy, Francis, he can look after hisself. Whiskey’s callin’ for ye at every tirn, aye and that’ll make any bloke tired, but ye feelin’ guilt over that too, s’well as all the things y’ever did drunk. Some of ‘em weren’t your fault, some of ‘em you’ve amended for, some of em were your fault, and you’ll feel guilty over ‘em for a long while. But you’ve been forgiven for all of it. And then, there’s the things you ain’t got whiskey to block out no more. The fears, the insecurities, the melancholy. What you’ve done with your life. Everything, and it’s casting a cloud over everything.”

He became aware that he was leant so far forward as to be bent almost double, elbows on his knees and pipe forgotten, staring at the blank expression of a man he was trying not to beseech. It took a lot of effort to sit up straight. “Am I right or wrong, Francis?” It was a challenge. A plea. A swan song. It was a question he should have asked a very long time ago. _He_ couldn’t forgive some of the things his friend had done, not yet anyway. He couldn’t forgive himself for many things he had done himself. There was no way of putting all of across in any words- theirs wasn’t that sort of friendship and the cracks were beginning to show.

Head bowed, the answer came, “You’re right.”

“Aye, I know ‘m right. I wouldn’t have reeled off the whole spiel if I wasn’t. Know what else I know? That whatever I might say to you, whate’er comfortin’ words I might impart you’ve already said to Fitzjames, probably a dozen other friends and officers, I’ll warrant. You say all of it, and ne’er take heed of none of it for yourself.”

“I’m not- that’s different!”

Thomas waved his agitation away, “You’re a man, same as any other, aren’t you? Granted stupider than most, but still a man.”

_That_ got him a soft guffaw and a “Piss off, you great lummox” but the humour dissipated like salt in water. Sighing, he continued, “Remember the letter you sent me? _You’ve just got to try and be a bit less shit_ , you idiot. And I’ll tell you summat for nothing- that means ye stop retreatin’ in to y’self when summat’s bothering you ‘cause ye feel vulnerable, then withdraw from people, then a day or week later y’apologize and say you’re fine now, ‘t’won’t happen again. But then ye go and do _exactly that_ next time summat starts bothering you again!”

Francis looked ashamed and sorry and Thomas was sick of it. “What else is there wrong? Is it the admiralty? Miss Cracroft? London? The broadsheets? Because I can tell you right now, jes’ stick two fingers up at ‘em and ye problems’ll be solved.”

“Not that.” With a sigh, Francis ran a hand over his face, then the other, then carded them both through his hair and leaned back, shadowed and light leaking away he looked old and tired. _Well_ , Blanky thought, shifting and leg twinging again, _ain’t we all_? “It’s- it’s- more the melancholy, than anything these past few weeks I have come to the conclusion that... perhaps happiness- _prolonged_ happiness... is not a thing I am meant for. “

_Melancholy, then_.After the whole palaver of this night, it could have seemed a tame cause, simple-evenperhaps anticlimactic. Observing the mess it had made of the man before him, though, he knew this was not the case. Thomas Blanky would rather fight the fucking Tuunbaq than the heartless monster that took up residence in too many men’s hearts. “You are, you fucking ninny. You’re just a bit fucked up right now, think- think of where we were last year, two years ago. Now we’re alive, safe, _warm_ -“ he pointed to the fire “-‘s just a bad patch, Francis, you’ll feel better again soon enough.”

“No!” the frustration took over every inch of his face, chewing at his lip until it was bloody, the crimson blooming an out of place rose. “It’s not- it isn’t just that. I _know_ misery and this- this isn’t- you know me, Thomas, even if I do- if he does... like me back, we fall into some intimate relations- or even if I do so with everyone in the world. Or find a- a soulmate, if that’s what’s popular now. It’s not going to- it isn’t...” the articulation wouldn’t come and he threw his hands into the hair and brought one to rest on the table so hard it rattled the cup in its saucer. “There is no _point_ to what you request me to do, Goddamn it!”

“The point is that you will be happy someday, Francis.”

“It is not a question of being happy,” he addressed his knees, still soggy from their encounter with London’s cobblestones. “But… it is not enough. Happiness is not enough- I’m not enough.”

“Bollocks,” Thomas replied succinctly.

“No” the man was a ghost. “No- I know- I _know_ \- and the dreams…”

“Bugger the dreams!” he scooted to the edge of his chair, then that wasn’t close enough and he screeched the chair itself forwards over the floorboards, howls reaching the ceiling and the warmth of the fire hitting his leg- _good thing that’s not the fake one, I’m not catching fire tonight, though it’d serve the bugger right_. “Listen, you idiot, your brain poisons itself, and it doesn’t do it any good when you don’t sleep and you don’t eat! Why- truly, when’s the last time you ate, hmm? Or slept through the night?”

“I don’t know.”

Frustrated, sad, and sorry, Thomas seized his shoulders. “Listen to me, you great gob shite. I’ll only say this once and once only- I’ve not th’ patience for twice, or even three times, by then I’ll jes’ smack you in th’ teeth to see sense. You deserve love, you deserve happiness and when you feel like it’s all hopeless _your brain is lying to you_.

“Remember ‘ow ye felt after Miss Cracroft? Now you’re in love wit’ some ‘un completely different. Your mind poisons you, Francis; I don’t know why but some men’s just _do_. Don’t sabotage your recovery because you think you should feel guilty that ye recovering from more’n the Expedition. Just recover, be a bit less shit and love your friends. The sadness won’t go away, but the suffering will.”

On the end of a juddering exhale, Francis nodded, eyes devoid of tears and expression full of sorrows. It occurred to Blanky that there was perhaps very little hope in the idea that fortune was merely when one’s mind lessened the dosage of the poison, that there was perhaps very little sense in saying so to a man when his mind was currently poisoned- but the man was Francis Crozier and Thomas Blanky had always told him the truth. From the tentative hand reaching up to anchor itself on his shoulder, it seemed perhaps the truth had been enough. There would be sadness, emptiness and more sadness, but happiness too.

“I want- I want to get better, Thomas.”

“You will,” he swore. “You already _are_ better- better than you was. You just keep going and- and when ye feel like ye can’t, you tell someone and they help you. There’s not a bloke among us who wouldn’t help you, ye daft beggar. Will you least remember that, next time ye get down in th’ dumps?”

Thomas had not a single buggering clue if he was saying the right thing, having never been of a disposition where any sort of hardship left him out of sorts for more than a matter of hours. Really, Ross ought to be here- or James Fitzjames himself, or anyone more suited to the task of commiseration than he was, but no one was and it was up to him. Given how the idiot sat across from him was beginning to crack into a smile, he didn't believe he had made too much of a dog’s dinner of the whole situation and grinned back.

“Come on, you wanker, let’s plan ‘ow ye goin’ to make it up to Jamie-boy ‘nd sweep the bastard off ‘is feet, hmm?”

 

***

 

When the clock struck four in the morning and Thomas Blanky came to leave, Francis was feeling a world away from how he had felt before he had paid a visit, putting truth to the man’s recent words and a smile on his face. Admittedly, several of his irreverent guru’s plans to- for lack of a better word- ‘woo’ James were rather far-fetched, one requiring the extraordinary circumstances of kidnapping and the crime of a parrot, but a solid plan of action was in place for more than just the matters of his heart and this was one of the few times Francis could genuinely say he had never felt happier.

“That’s me orf, then- ‘opefully I’ll find a pub ‘fore they all close.”

He looked at Thomas’ grinning face and felt his own smile widen as he helped the man into his coat, “Are you saying I drive you to drink?”

“You drive me to fuckin’ distraction,” he agreed, lighting his pipe for the umpteenth time that morning- the smell was as comforting as the holey old blanket that was a necessity at the foot of everyone’s bed, the one a man was unable to bear the idea of discarding for good. “Reckon I’ll ‘ave a nice liquid breakfast ‘fore I get the carriage back up home.”

Guilt nibbled at the edges of his mind. “I told you there’s no need, you could stay here for a bit and-“

“And I told _you_ I was already sick of your ugly mug,” but there was no heat behind the words, only the affection they held for each other, however strangely it was articulated. “No- I’ve ‘ad enough of this fuckin’ city. Too dark, too foggy, too big. Next time _you’re_ coming oop North ‘nd you’re walkin’ round the Moors ‘til we lose you and run off.”

Laughing, breeze blowing through the door, sky grey with the early dawn, his friend reached out to clasp him into an embrace he had no reason to leave unrequited. “I will be sure to have James accompany me, so you can lose the both of us with the least effort.”

“Jolly good, now just you make sure y’pproach it ‘xactly’s I told ye and the bloke’ll love you so uch ‘e wouldn’t stay away even if you smelt like a thousand year old armpit.” And he laughed at his own joke, clapping his back and stumbling backwards, showing no indication of how he caught his back on the doorframe, strolling off down the street in search of merry times.

Sagging on the door frame and only waving for the length of it time it took him to disappear around the corner because he hadn’t the strength to move, Francis watched him go, then slammed shut the door, leaning back against it as his head spun.

Cold barely sapped away by sunlight, white for miles around- white, white of a funeral shroud and a wedding dress _I mean permission not granted!_ All were dead and gone and open wounds- he ran his hands up and down his arms but he was all in one piece and met only lukewarm skin and dry broadcloth. At least love me enough to admit it and he could hear- he could _hear_ the words in Thomas’ voice he can hear it, surely as if he were standing beside him- Thomas is going to die even though even though even though- “I’m not going to say goodbye to two friends in one day,” Francis murmured. Aloud, the words were each and every one a punch to the lower torso and he doubled over, sobbing. “It’s not real, it’s not real.” It was real and both of them were dead. What in the name of God took you so fucking long- exactly what Thomas would do, given a huge terrible Arctic creature and a rotting leg. _I’m not Christ- feed the men_. The smell of gangrenous flesh mingling with the tobacco smoke in the air joined with his grief and pulled his stomach up his throat. He made it to the privy in time, but there was nothing to lose.

 

***

 

When James returned home after the officer’s dinner that he was confident would go down in History as one of the most excruciating social event ever held on British soil, it was closer to noon that it was the time he had left. Not to say his anger had diminished in the least- oh no, that was a fire currently seeming as eternal as Prometheus’ punishment- but it was mellowed by the fact that on the way home the cab driver and the claret had combined togive him thoughts of being Cinderella, and he was only just sobering up as he made his way to the front door.

He twisted the key, but it didn’t budge. He turned it the other way, frowning as he heard the lock click open. _I must have left it unlocked last night_. Well, it was a decent and customary habit to check one’s front door before retiring to bed, regardless of one’s neighbourhood or the calibre of burglar who may be lurking about one’s street, so why the bloody hell hadn't Francis checked and locked the door behind him?

“Francis!” Upon shutting the door from the other side, James checked it was most definitely locked _this_ time. “Francis!” Really, James mused, toeing off his boots in that awkward way he had learnt to do after his two toes dearly departed, he had no idea why he was so angry. It was not as if the non-attendance had caused _him_ any particular slight, nor had he been asked to make excuses for the man. Except he had made excuses, being halfway through the second of the evening before he had even realised he was doing it- the prospect of adorned admirals, who’d never set foot on Arctic ice making uncouth murmurs behind their hands about Francis left him revolted to the very core and he had a very good idea as to why. He shrugged off his coat and felt his skin settle back over his skeleton. The clock struck six. _Four bells_ James corrected mentally, then belittled himself for doing so, _we’re not at sea now!_ Even if the days he felt lost in an ocean storm were coming more and more frequent… sighing at the turn his thoughts had taken, he tried to focus on what Francis was shouting back before realising that that would have the exact opposite effect. James frown grew deeper. Half in and half out of his left boot, arms braced on the door infront of him, head tilted over his shoulder to peer down the receding hall, he heard only the clock flee the seconds. Francis had not shouted back. James began down the hall, “Francis?”

No answer.

The only response was the sound of the wind- and how strange it was, to hear the wind in such a manner when it had been a clement morning outside. Bridgens had even commented how pleasant it was for May, causing James to think of Portugal and burning and clown noses before returning to a conversation he hadn't realised was still continuing.

Still no answer.

Though it was inadmissible, his feet sped up as he passed empty, open rooms. “Francis?” He reached the bathroom. “Francis! Where are- my God, what’s happened are you alright my God!” the man on the floor looked as washed out as the Arctic watercolours and as wasted as an old man. _Whiskey_ was James’ first thought, disgusted withhimself for it, then deciding he couldn’t hate Francis even if he was right, and- oh, not gusts of wind after all, but _this_.

All this he considered within the split second of first witnessing the scene contained in the cold, tiled bathroom. The moment after that stretched out into a blank calm sea where his legs wouldn’t move and his brain wouldn’t think. Up until the man on the floor twisted and moaned “James” and unlocked the cursed upon him. He hurried forward, unsure quite of what to do to aid a man in the throes of distress, but aware that he must do _something_ because this was his friend and this was Francis.

A light touch upon the shoulder did not appear to help any, given how the man flinched under his touch, moaned and tried to move away. James tried to catch the attention of the pupils swimming beneath the murky pools that had filmed over his eyes. “Francis?” His knees protested as he knelt down beside him on the floor, cold sleeping through his trousers to leach into his bones. Damn near as cold as the Arctic. “Francis, what happened?” _Dear God, pray tell me the man has not found whiskey_ \- but up close the smell, while horrendous, was lacking any hint of an alcoholic tang, which put him at ease. Slightly. _If he was ill and I left him in favour of a night out…_ James would never forgive himself. “Francis?”

 

***

 

“Francis?”

Somebody was calling his name. It echoed and bounced all around him, until when it finally got to his ears it trembled and shook, a leaf in the wind. He felt horrid, afraid and, ghastly. if he moved even an inch from the tiles where he sat he was met with a biting cold that made him think of things he would rather forget in the Arctic; if he stayed still where he sat his back spasmed like it had done as he recovered from things he would rather forget in the Arctic. Maybe he was still in the Arctic. Fear crept up, unbidden and lured by the thought that rescue and life had all been a delirious hallucination soaked in whiskey and no one was comin to save them.

“Francis?”

It sounded like Commander Fitzjames. Which was impossible because he would never see fit to visit him on his sick bed for a malady of his own making; nor would he bid the man entry if he did.

“Francis?”

The hallucination was persistent, he’d credit him that. The taste of ash was in his mouth again. He retched desperately, straining enough for tears to begin to gather at the corners of his eyes and his back cracked- Rap RapRapraprap rap rapRAPRAPRAP RAPrapRAPRAP both girls are double-jointed and are taking turns snapping their big toes against their second toes _it is very dark where they are_ Katy said- Francis retched even harder, unable to tell whose hand was on his back and who was real and who was not. “James,” he mewed pitifully. “I want James.”

“I’m here!” said James Fitzjames.

“Not-“ Francis made the words stop. Tried, in fact, to swallow them but his body wanted to do the exact opposite of swallowing; instead he leaned as far as he could to bury the betrayal in London’s sewers, unable to bring himself to tell the man that he was the wrong James. _No, not you_. There was no need to make the man feel inadequate as a man when the other James was six hundred miles south in the sunshine that bleached every problem away. Surprising that he could think such thoughts during such a time- last time he was like this- _last time you were still a fucking drunkard_. Muscle memory made him seize and shake, shake all over- there was nothing left inside of him, no part of him that was not empty, so he allowed himself to fall backwards and begin to slide sideways. A hand arrested his fall and instead of meeting the icy floor he had been bracing himself for, he met scratchy soft knees and gusts of wind that sounded an awful lot like gentle shushes. He felt warm, and it left him cold. Flowers were growing in his mouth. The heaving was automatic, the attempt to purge himself of the taste instinct, even if it would only cover it up with something worse. The flinch did not come, not any hasty attempt to distance himself and his clothes from the possible ensuing mess.

“Shush,” soothed the breeze. “Shush now, shush.” And then a voice, low and breathless, saying, “It’s alright, Francis, it’s alright.”

This was _not_ what Thomas had envisioned, of that he had no doubt.

_Well_ , Francis decided with what might be his last coherent thought of the day, _if he still likes after this I’ll never let him go_. He was flying, tethered only by the warm clasp upon his arm- a carrier pigeon, I am a carrier pigeon, he nearly giggled, the top half of him as soaring through the air and his legs were sliding along a pond- maybe a swan, not a pigeon, which went on for quite some time before a circlet tethered him both legs to the edge of a bed, he wavered from side to side rather than anything resembling sitting up- I must have landed on the foremast, then the breeze ruffled his feathers and new feathers were buttoned up around him and boots he had not previously been aware he was wearing were wriggled off his toes. Worms. _A worm? I thought I was a dog_. A warm tidal wave rose over him, flowing from the priest’s communion robes and crashing over his head.

 

***

 

It was of little surprise to find that he made a rather regrettable nursemaid, but no less of a disappointment. James sighed and pressed his fingers into his eyes, feeling every minute of sleep he had missed with every second that passed by. For once, Francis had the advantage over him in matters of slumber; he looked over again at the man fast asleep on the bed to prove his point. Had he been asked to name which of them would have come stumbling home in the early hours, dishevelled and vomiting and fast asleep until noon at best, it would not have been Francis. How much of his agitated mutterings were linked to reality and what to his incomprehensible dream, James was not exactly sure but he had the understanding that Francis had gone out, Mr Blanky had paid him a visit and left. Though not uttered, James could conclude whatever _this_ was had begun after he left, if only because of the surety he held that the man would never have left him alone in such a state. _Why, then, was he so short about the officer’s dinner If he knew he was going to meet Thomas?_ Questions and questions and questions. Answers? None. Clarity? About as much as a foggy day in the Firth of Forth.

Even taking care of his friend bad been a hopeless failure- beyond putting him to bed and waiting for him to wake up he was at a loss, which was not helped by the fear and confusing amount of grief swirling about his mind. At the time, it had seemed prudent to help him to James’ own bed, what with it being the closest to the water closet and Francis’ faltering steps matching his own as he recognised his inability to carry him even the scant distance here. Only having gotten him _to_ his bed had he realised the necessity, then, to use one of _his_ own nightshirts. It would have been totally unfeasible to leave him alone to fetch one of his own from his own room, all of twenty feet down the hallway; James hated how high the odds were that after recovering it back, he was going to keep it unwashed and hold it late into the night. _Mayhaps the Lord’ll be kind and he’ll throw up on that one so I’ve no choice but to launder it_. Perhaps burning the offending article would be better. Cursing his own selfishness in such a time, James buried his face in his hands to muffle the string of profanities he let forth. Words from every language he knew, and even some belonging to the made-up tongue he and his brother had dreamt up when they were idle children. He would warrant his (self) loathing, in that moment, went even deeper than the seabed.

As always when his thoughts turned so, instinct bade him flee to privacy and his journal and his room. But he was in his room and committing pen to the paper in his lap with a foreign entity two foot away on the bed felt dreadfully, horribly naked. Never had he felt more of a useless being; a newborn baby bird, helpless and hopeless and no good to anyone, abandoned by its mother and by nature and squawking pitifully out of an unwillingness to accept he was alone in the world. Against the stark white pages, he watched with horrified fascination as his hand trembled.

Perhaps he should try to find solace in Francis’ bedroom instead?

No, he couldn’t go there uninvited (unwanted, his mind corrected). Without its occupant, there would be little comfort in the refuge, anyway.

Groaning, the occupier of the bed turned over. _I still haven’t told him about the whore_. For the love of God, was his entire life made up of lies?

The journal was the one font of truth- small wonder, then, he kept it under lock and key. James remembered how he had been tempted in the first stages of his life to revise all mentions of his infatuation he had written previously, the desire to alter his words so that in distant recollections it would appear as being rooted in more substance than just lies and lamenting. The tip of his pen bent under the force with which he was pressing it down to the paper and he cast it away, only to feel his face crumple as a dark blue ink splatter appeared on the wall paper. With haste, he hid his sobs behind his hands and turned his chair away from the bed lest Francis unexpectedly rouse and see his pitiful visage. ‘Miserable, pathetic knock-me-down of the lowest order’ Sir John had told him of all alcoholic spirits, whilst they both pretended he was not referring by association to Francis. His voice was whistling through his ears, only James saw the truth spreading out over him in a dark blue ink blot: unfurling and spreading to each corner of the room. _He_ was the cad, the bastard and the problem. He brought up every single one of Francis’ flaws to Sir John so as to avoid any mention of his own, because he was too weak and worry-ridden to man up and taken even the lowliest of criticisms. Frantically increasing the smear campaign whenever he felt his own esteem plummeting, desperately heightening it whenever the man came too close to stripping away his defences, because he could not trust himself not to confess all of the lies of his life at the slightest pressure. Had Francis ever taken his bad temper out on him? Never! He had, instead, cut right through every bit of bollocks James had thrown his way and rattled him down to the core. _God I’m despicable_. It was not the first time he had thought such things about himself- more likely as not it was not going to be the last, not even the last instance this week. But of all the times he had thought so thus far, this time it perhaps hurt the most. When he’d no solace to flee to and no friend to turn to.

 

***

 

How long he cried he could not say, but Francis had not stirred again by the end of it and unless he had gone deaf he had not heard a clock strike the next hour, so he could assume only that it had not been too long. Sleep was beckoning and he shook it off and retreated, just briefly, just once, to the bathroom to clean his face and wake himself up. In the mirror, a gaunt and red-eyed skeleton stared back that it took too long to recognise as himself. The only consolation was his gums were pale pink, all the scurvy leeched out of him. Tiredness remained, but not the sort sleep would fix, so he counted it as victory and returned to his vigil in perhaps the most uncomfortable chair he had ever sat in. Somehow, Francis slept on. He murmured, nearly inaudible, as James pulled his journal closer towards him, and these he recorded as the first line of the day’s entry.

 

_‘No, James- I want to get better_ ’. The context in which Francis uttered those words to me today is strange and convoluted and perhaps senseless.

5pm, I left for dinner after arguing with him over whether he would be coming or not.

6am, I returned home, to find him sick and confused in the bathroom.

I put him to (my) bed. At some point within this half a day he was paid a visit by Blanky. Now I do not what the hell is going on. Currently it is eight bells and he sleeps still, having just spoken aloud in his sleep to announce the above words. The context of his dream and the events of his night I know not, but I think God has been merciful and given those words to me as a sign. A sign from an incapacitated navy man in my bed but did Sir John not always say that the Lord works in mysterious ways?

I have endless questions and inadequate answers. Like Francis, I want to be better. I want- I want an end to this cycle; first things go well and then there is a pothole in my path- sometimes I dig it, sometimes others. Many times I doubt that it was intentional on their part, or even that they are aware of its effect on me whatsoever. The majority of people living in this world can step over the pothole- in my road; underneath the ground is a bubbling sulphur pit of fear and disquiet, which has no hesitate in putting in reappearance at every fissure. This is my downfall. When the time comes, I panic. I worry. I mope. I distract everyone around me with some pretty, shiny story and pick apart their reactions to add to the flames for kindling, and then I throw the story in the air and run in the opposite direction- usually to my bedroom, where I fret over the matter some more until Francis gets tired of my tizzy and applies some tough, practical advice as balm to get me out of my slump. For a time I analyse and examine all of _his_ words, actions and expressions too, until the boat gradually stops rocking. A period of respite and recuperation is granted for a finite amount of time before the whole cycle begins again. I am not the Ouroboros and I do not have to chew myself up and spit myself out and _devour_ myself. I can change, grow, break the circle and become a man who I am content with. It is possible, the only question is _how_. Even now, when I could be exercising thoughts of softness and aid to a man clearly in distress, I have spent all morning simply observing him in my clothes and my bed. No longer. I am going to be better. I shall- I shall- I’m going to- I am going to-

 

***

 

James was dozing at the kitchen table when he came in fully dressed, bare-footed and with a blanket wrapped round his shoulders and it was this half-state of awareness upon which he blamed what he said: “Ah, I’m glad to see you clothed. People will start to talk if we don’t cease viewing the other half naked. But I’m glad you are awake- you are a veritable Sleeping Beauty.”

Francis blinked, looking more tired than nonplussed. It warmed James’ heart to think he was probably used to his superfluous ramblings by now. He snorted, “Would that mean you kissed me?”

“I doubt anyone would want to wake up to _that_.”

“I would.”

They stopped. In the Antarctic, it had been so cold tsunamis would freeze before they could crash. Francis hastily reverted to the first thing he could think of. “You look like shit.” Internally, he cringed even as he said it- he was making as much a mess of this as a bull in a china shop. China, he nearly scoffed. Buggering Christ, he’d even listen to that story twice again. How gone he was.

“You don’t look much better,” the man continued the dialogue as if he was completely and utterly unware of how long it’d taken Francis to remove himself from his bed sheets. “Do you want a sleeping powder?”

It angered him, for some reason. “No, I want to apologise!” he snapped, feeling temper swoop over his shoulders a familiar coat.

“For what?”

“For what- James, I woke up in your bed!”

“Oh _that_. No, don’t trouble yourself, Francis. It was my own actions that put you there and not a single misstep on your part.”

“You put me in your bed… what the hell for?”

James counted the reasons off on his fingers. _Sleepless and deprived of anxiety and therefore deprived of any reason or sense_ , “You were unwell, my room was closer, I couldn’t carry you, and I wanted to play Prince Charming.” More silence and only then did he think _oh bollocks_.

“Still,” he muttered, looking away as he sat down opposite. “I would still like to apologise.”

“It seems all you have done these past few weeks is apologise.”

_He did not mean that_ he thought the same time the other thought _I did not mean that_.

Could he really be blamed if he had?

A sigh chilled the room and Francis slumped in is chair, resting one hand at his brow and clutching his blanket tighter with the other. It was cold. What was it that Thomas had said? ‘Don’t apologise and then go doing the same again’? Well, Francis much preferred ‘you’ve just got to be a bit less shit’, but he supposed the sentiment was the same.

“I know,” he began, feeling unwell and bereft and lost at sea, starting to speak more for the sake of filling the silence before James filled it with askance remonstrations and demands he leave. He cleared his throat and tried again, avoiding James’ eyes and unwilling to drown. “I know that I have been… difficult these past few weeks. And, I- I owe you- an apology, definitely, but also an, an explanation. I know.”

“Really, Francis, you don’t owe me anything- I shouldn’t have asked. It is none of my business and you do not have to tell me.” _I want it to be my business_.

_I want it to be your business_ , the tired old captain thought grimly, and his next words heavy with all that he did not say. “Be that as it may but- I _do_. Owe you, I mean. Not just- just for these past weeks but also for a lot more.”

James tried to pitch his voice as gently as he could, “Then start from the beginning.”

Which beginning did he mean? Damn the man. The beginning, as in the Sight he gained after years of blotting it out with whiskey? The beginning, where the melancholy started and where he had searched and searched but couldn’t find the source of the river? The beginning, as they had met, where they respected each other little and liked one another even less; where he had recognised a longing within him a mile wide and deliberately left him yearning?

Francis did not like beginnings and he doubted James much would either. But… a sea change. All seas had to start somewhere. He breathed in, and began again. “Lately I have been… not sleeping.”

And James, _James_ , he nodded, as if this were the right thing to do and there was nothing and nowhere in the world he would rather be doing than here in London helping him into the ungodly hours of the night as if he was no burden at all. “Because- because I have _dreams_ , James, but… They’re not the same as dreams. They’re real, or- or-“ he had long suspected that silence reigned on such heretical matters as Memo Moira simply because there was no words within the entirety of the English language to explain them. “Not all the time- I don’t have these dreams all the time, but when one is- I know.”

Frown lines were scarring heavy shadows onto the other man’s face. Francis hated himself.

“What sort of dreams?”

“Lots of- for one, the first one, when we got back to London. There was… in the Arctic and that _thing_ killed Sir John, only I was Sir John. I could hear everything he thought as he died and all the water and the smell and- and-“he could not continue. James, in an act of dratted mercy, got up and made him a cup of tea as an excuse to turn his back. _Is he disgusted with me? Or is he saying I need to pull myself together?_ He snorted- he knew the latter already. “I know it sounds- but it was real, James. I was Sir John in that moment. It was real.”

“I believe you.” _So why don’t I turn around?_

“There are others- other dreams, I mean. Things that haven’t happened… that’ll never happen, now. I don’t plan on going back to any clime colder than freezing ever again, but- they would have happened. Do you understand? Walking the men out moribund and dying, half already gone and killed by the Beast instead of just maimed. They’re all real.”

“They can’t be _real_ , Francis, not if they can no longer happen!”

“But they are! He insisted, shocked to feel tears floating under the brims of his eyes. “Listen, James please, please listen! Please believe me- Jopson is dead, and you. The leads never break up and Hickey mutinies. He kills Irving, the Tuunbaq gets onto _Erebus._ We take the boats out and you die- but not because we take the boats out, because, because I kill you. Bridgens and Goodsir helped. Sometimes though you kill me- you come home and you kill me but first you-“

“I what?... Well, tell me!” _these are not the answers I wanted_.

“You embrace me. You are my friend.” There was a pause where even the clock did not sound. “In other dreams, you kiss me.”

When he spoke again to reply, James did not even recognise his own voice, “Which do you prefer?”

“The latter.”

In a surge of movement they were standing, one of them backed against the wall and a shaky gap between them drawing closer and closer. “What do you want?” Francis pleaded. _Say me, say me, please, say me_.

James opened his mouth and answered: “You.”

Having been given damn near everything he wanted in the past six months, and being offered the remaining piece of the puzzle, unbelievably, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier shook his head. James’ face fell. Never- never- he could not breathe. _Never._ “What do you want, then?” he demanded, damn tired of never achieving his dreams. Francis’ face was torn, working and twisting and hollowing and sorrowing. Probably, he realised, a mirror to his own face.

“I never- I know I am not a particularly good man, I know you probably want to cart me off to Bedlam- probably should. I know I am not- but I have never wanted to be a man who treats you badly.”

“And if I do not accept your apology?”

“Then…” he shrugged helplessly. “I do not blame you.”

“And if I feel that there is no slight to atone for?”

“James.” Francis’ voice cracked. “You do not have to- I _know_ I am not an easy man to love.”

“And if the love I hold for you is still unaltered?” they were both breathing hard now, the distance between them lessened significantly. “And if I think the exact same thing about mine own self?”

“Then you are a fool,” Francis breathed, except something was blooming in his eyes that looked an awful lot like hope.

“And if I forgive you for everything and I always will?”

“A fool!” he confirmed.

“And what is your opinion of a man who loves a miserable Irish bastard called Francis Crozier with all his heart?” Another step closer.

“A fool. And the miserable Irish bastard loves you back.”

Their eyes met. Francis closed the gap and James murmured against his lips, “Then kiss me, damn you.”

A kiss for the ages it was not, nor could any kiss be when behind it was a momentum unsuited for such a very, very short distance, but a kiss it was all the same. A passionate, sloppy, harsh, awkward, terrible, lovely, breath taking kiss that tasted of tears and stopped too soon. Damn air.

“A fool,” Francis murmured even as he touched their foreheads together and ravaged his face with his eyes as if seeing him for the first or last time, feeling lighter than he had in a long time and tasting only James. James’ legs felt weak as Francis looked upon him with pure wonder. “A bloody fucking fool, James Fitzjames. You survive the Arctic and now you condemn yourself at home?”

James stopped, wanting to tell him everything in apassionate and beautiful line that would become the foundation of the story of the rest of their lives and that he would tell for as long as he lived and be the bedrock for the rest of his life and his powers of speech failing him. This was not a story. What had Nelson said? “Kiss me, Francis.”

Francis stepped even closer- on top of James’ boot caps- and they kissed again. Their second kiss. It dazzled him that soon there may be so many kisses he would have lost count. They broke apart and he opened his eyes and the other man was still there and James whispered, “There are worst fates than you, Francis.”

Francis’ eyes were shining. “You’re a fool,” he repeated. James had never been insulted so fondly as he was by this man. “But my God you are my fool, James Fitzjames. I won’t even complain the next time you talk about China.”

He giggled, golden bubbles floating about them softly, “Yes you will.”

“Maybe a little,” he conceded, relieved to hear the man laugh and scarcely daring blink as he looked upon everything anew. “But God help anyone else who complains.”

The laugh this time was louder, “You would defend my honour?”

“Yes,” he promised, slipping his round the slim waist and marvelling at it all. “Of course I will. _Someone_ has to look after you, and it looks like it’s going to be me.”

They kissed again. The third time. Then again and again, until they had so often they had both lost count, though neither of them would admit to the keeping of the mental tally in the first place. James realised how tired he was when he yawned mid-embrace and Francis burst out laughing and dragged him to bed.

Undressing was a short, half-cocked affair. British Spring Time was cold and both of them were too tired to dare try anything more taxing than observing each other’s company. True undressing would have to wait for a later time (or earlier, seeing as the late hour was part of the problem) when they would be only be revealing their bodies and not their souls or their secrets.

“Tomorrow,” murmured Francis, directly against the pale whorl of James’ ear, pressed close with not an inch of space between any part of them that was touching. “Tomorrow you are going to wake up knowing I love you back.”

He had said precisely the right thing, as James had been just thinking upon that exact same issue. Usually his mornings were greeted as a green boy to a rocking boat, knots in his gut and worry even about simply ambling down the hall in search of breakfast. How lovely it was going to be tomorrow, on that first morning, when it was going to feel as if everything in the world was alright.

“Will you be able to sleep?” he asked, instead of inquiring if Francis would be there when he woke up- if he’d be in Francis’ arms- if he would ever fall and there would come a time that Francis would not be there to catch him.

“Even if I can’t I shall stay right here.” James went limp like waves crashing over the shore.

“You should still try.”

“Mmmm,” he had already spent long enough in sleep’s company today and there was no guarantee that he would not dream should Morpheus visit again.

Tightening his hold on the body in his arms, he kissed the top of James’ hair tenderly, determined to stay awake until a light doze in the early hours- James always hated waking up to face the day, he knew, and he was going to do the utmost he could to preserve the sanctity of tomorrow for him even if it meant he did not sleep one bit. All the old fears would come back sooner or later regardless of tonight’s developments; he was going to give James just _one_ morning- later, but still soon, they were both going to have to explain themselves to each other. They were going to have to find words for the unexplainable and they were going to have to confront the fact that Francis’ melancholy could be sadness or it could be happiness but it was always going to be there. Confrontation with both that and James’ only plagueful thoughts was inevitable. But just one morning of pure, total, unadulterated happiness in whatever form- James deserved that. James thought _he_ deserved that.

James turned over in his arms and kissed him, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They were going to be happy in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arguments and pining abound, but they get there in the end and so do I :) it's finally typed, at long last- thank God overtime yesterday was cancelled, else it would have taken another week. I'm at a bit of a loose end now, seeing as this fic has consumed my life nearly two months, but I'm glad to finally be done with it. this chapter is a lot more proof-read than the first, though I'm sure they'll still be some mistakes somewhere. i'm... still quite happy with this fic? I'll probably re-read it in a fortnight and think of a million things I want to change, but for now I am really content with what I've done.   
> again- I tried to make it as accurate as I could- Cinderella and sleeping beauty are both correct period fairy tales, believe it or not, and I've slipped a cunning bruce springsteen reference into james' journal entries. I did have to fudge a couple of things, and spellchecker hasn't forgiven me for blanky's accent, but I'm quite happy- I didn't want to just give them a happy ending without addressing the fact that THEY have all sorts of different issues to address, if that makes sense? but I'm leaving it as it is now, else i'll never finish it

**Author's Note:**

> *waves shyly* I had the initial idea of this fic back in January and it's taken me a month to write it since finishing my deamus fic and another month to type it up- the second chapter is finished, btw, it just needs to be typed up. I am... really proud of this fic? I've had to fudge a few historical details, either because I couldn't turn up a definitive answer with researching it, or it just ended up fitting better, but it's nearly all as accurate as I could make it. 
> 
> EL is of course Edward Little, playing the part of Jopson's beau, and the Portuguese creatures mentioned in the letter to JCR is a (bad) translation of 'nasty badgers'- striped black and white, presumably they look similar to JCR's hair as he aged, his hair being a point of pride with him. (Him and James Fj really aren't so different). 
> 
> This fic started off as the idea of the inability to tell nightmares from actual Sight dreams, and then reading the REAL crozier's biography 'last man standing', which details his depression and his friendship with JCR, I realised hardly anyone had actually focused on THAT aspect of life in their fics and... why go to therapy when you can write, right?


End file.
